


It's A Past Life

by trenchcoatandimpala



Series: Life [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Awkward Flirting, Big Brother Gabriel, Body Horror, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, Canonical Character Death, Case Fic, Dom Castiel, Dom/sub Undertones, Drugs, Facebook, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Online Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Pining, Prostitution, Psychic Abilities, Rape Recovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexting, Slow Burn, Sub Dean, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-05-23 09:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 124,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6111568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trenchcoatandimpala/pseuds/trenchcoatandimpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the whole shebang in Lawrence, Castiel was slowly settling into his role at the organization as a hired killer in Chicago. The sexual tension between Michael and Lucifer skyrocketed no thanks to their stubbornness to admit their attraction for one another. Meanwhile in Sioux Falls, Dean tried to get used to a normal life while participating in some form of dom/sub sexting with Jimmy N., someone he came to know on Facebook. Turned out, normal wasn't easy especially when Sam started having nightmares. And sometimes, they came true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for your support on my previous fanfic: 'It's A Terrible Life'. Now comes it's sequel 'It's A Past Life' and I hope it's everything you all hope for and more! This fic can be read as a stand alone.
> 
> Also, I have published "It's A Terrible Life" on Amazon (http://amzn.to/2wyvHcm). I've made a few changed and edit the whole thing basically haha. I won't take it off AO3 because at the end of the day, I write because I love the fandom and want to contribute ^^ But if you do enjoy the fic, please do leave a comment or a review on Amazon! I will deeply appreciate your efforts! Again I want to thank you all for your support because, without your kudos and comments, I would never have made it this far!

The hair at the nape of his neck curls as the heat in the room slowly but surely increases. Sweat trickles down his back and beads at his hairline. The air is humid, even the open full-length window a few feet from his bed doesn't do much to help. The breeze wafting in is hot and stuffy, adding to the dampness on his skin. 

This summer is just heat waves after heat waves and despite how calm and tranquil Castiel tries to be, the constant humidity and warmth is making him prickly. He slides the magazine from the gun he's holding and lays it down on the bed beside him. With a few quick moves, he disassembles the weapon; barrel, slide, guide rod, frame and arranges them neatly side by side. Picking up the solvent-soaked cleaning rod, he begins to clean the barrel, all his attention focus on that small weapon.

Sweat continues to drip down his back and the side of his face as he stares at the motions. In, out. In, out. The smell of solvent is thick and foul, and the open window does nothing to dampen the stench. Replacing the rod with a bore brush, he continues making the same movement, eyes never leaving the barrel. He had just finished lubricating and oiling the gun when there's a knock on the door. 

Castiel looks up, blue eyes almost matching the color of the sky outside; a brilliant blue. He quickly throws the cotton patches away and with a few swift moves reassembles the gun. Picking up the cloth by his bedside, he stands, wiping down the weapon as he walks to the door. Before opening the door, though, he tosses the rag aside and places the gun into the waist holster he's wearing.

"You're early," he says without preamble as he swings the door open and takes a step back. 

"Are you ready?" Michael asks, ignoring his comment. He nods. Michael turns around and walks swiftly down the hallway without another word. Castiel rushes to follow, closing the door to his room with a soft click. He walks a step behind the man, staying silent.

Michael leads him through the apartment; a penthouse of one of the many high-rise building in North Side Chicago. It's been three months since Castiel moved in and he still could not wrap his head around how huge the apartment is. The whole top floor belongs to Michael. The only way in and out is through the elevator which can only be accessed using a key card and retinal scan. 

It took Michael a month to add Castiel to the list; a month whereby Castiel was trapped inside the building with the knowledge that he's stuck living with two highly trained professional killers. He stares at the man in front of him. Now that he knew the truth, he could sort of see the aura Michael exudes. The quiet confidence in his movement. The subtle alertness to his surrounding. The constant vigilance. 

Michael leads him through the wide spacious Scandinavian-like looking living room, through the humble dining area and bar counter to the most equipped fancy kitchen he'd ever laid eyes on. There's a large island table in the middle made of salvage wood with pans of all sizes hanging from the roof above it. The table is littered with chopping boards, trays of spices and an assortment of oil. 

The place to cook itself is heaven, especially for someone who loves to cook like Michael, which Castiel discovered soon after moving in. He cooks every meal; breakfast, lunch, dinner and sometimes even supper. All the kitchen utensils are built into the kitchen counter covering one-half of the wall; fridge, stove, oven, sink, dishwasher, range hood, everything. This area is where he's most likely to find Micahel throughout the day.

They passed the kitchen into a medium size hallway to the other side of the apartment. All at once, Castiel feels a chill. The difference between the two sides is stark. Everything on the other side is made of wood. Wooden shelves, wooden furniture, wooden frame, wooden archways; but not the dark mahogany ones but pale brown ones; the color of oak bark. The couches, curtains and bed are the same tan color. It makes the rooms feels airy and vast. The full-length glass windows helped too.

This side, however, is decorated in black stainless steel. Everything looks cool and detached. The metal cold to the touch. There're not many windows here, and even those are covered with impenetrable black shades. The place is lighted with artificial light to make it looks like daylight because of how shut in everything is. Castiel had been in and out of this place every day for months, and he still feels creep out every time he enters it. 

The end of the hallway splits into two directions; left and right. On both sides are more doors leading to areas in the house that Castiel had been to and some not. Michael turns left and opens the second door to his right. He flips the switches, lighting up the room. 

Castiel walks to the side and puts on the eye and ear protection. Then, he steps forward to his lane. Michael had just finished uploading his target. He unholstered his gun, releases the safety catch and squares his feet and shoulders. He stretches his arms out in front of him and line up his sight, blue eyes intent on the target in front of him. The room is cool, and he can feel the sweat at his neck prickles. 

"Ready?" Michael's voice breaks the stillness of the indoor shooting range. He nods. "Go on then. Impress me."

Inhale. Fire. 

Castiel fires off all 17 rounds from his Beretta M9, exhales and ejects the magazine. Michael presses the button that calls forward his target and waits until it reaches them. Even from this distance, Castiel could see that all his shots landed in the area around the head. Michael pulls the target off and examines it. 

"Not bad," he says, tossing the target to the side. "Again." He loads another target up, and they repeat the process.

The day after he left Lawrence, Kansas was the day that this became his life. 

\---

**Three months ago**

"Michael." 

"Naomi."

Castiel is confused. What are they doing here? Who's this lady in the gray suit? The men holding position on both side of her look dangerous. It's not telling. They don't have tattoos, crazy eyes or steroids body. Instead, they looked smart, polished with their three-piece suit and gelled back hair. Something about them just seems off. The way they stand and the piercing look in their eyes. Castiel feels like they can kill him in a second. 

"I see you have company," the lady, Naomi comments, eyes flicking over to Lucifer, narrowing a bit before landing on him. Her steel gray eyes sparkle with interests, the light from the window reflecting her blonde hair tied in a bun at the nape of her neck. The hair at the back of his neck stands. 

"Yes. I assume you already know Lucifer," Michael answers, motioning slightly to the man to his left. Naomi nods.

"I do. And I'm wondering what a dead man is doing in my building." Michael opens his mouth to answer, but Naomi beats him to it. "I thought I gave you a job to do, Michael. And you promised me he was dead."

"Naomi..." Michael's voice cracks.

Naomi waves a hand to silence him. She stands up from her chair and walks around the table. She glares at Lucifer who Castiel can see is glaring back with equal displeasure. She turns back to Michael, eyes softening, sad. 

"Michael, why?"

Michael stares back at her, eyes bright with unshed tears and clenches his jaw.

"What did I ever do to you to deserve this? Hm? I took you in when you had nothing. I gave you a home. I gave you an education. I treated you like my own son. So why Michael? Why would you disobey me for some stranger?" 

"Please. Drop the Mother Theresa act. You took children in to train them into becoming your assassins. You're doing this for yourself."

"Oh," Naomi turns her steely glare at Lucifer. "And how do you know that fact? Did Michael told you that?"

"Luke," Michael warns.

"When I met him, he was almost dying, severely wounded and malnourished. His skin was clinging to his bones. I took him in, yes. I gave him a roof over his head, food in his belly and a warm shower every day. He gets to go to school and complete his education. He graduated with honors from MIT with a degree in Computer Science." Naomi turns to look at Michael. "I was so proud."

"Michael could be whatever he chose to be. I never forced him to work for me. It was his choice. He chose this life. He chose me." Naomi smiles, stepping closer to Michael. "I knew you were loyal, Michael. I knew you were obedient. Which is why it saddens me so much that you would do this." She takes a step back, expression stricken. 

"I gave you everything you needed. I never judged you." Michael stiffens. "I accepted you for who you are. I trusted you. And this is how you repay me? By going behind my back and disobeying direct orders? And for what? All for a man," she spits. 

"Naomi!" 

The whole room falls silent as they stare at Michael. The man is breathing hard, glacier blue eyes flooding with tears. He's shaking. "I'm sorry," he breathes out. "I couldn't do it. He's my friend."

"Friend?" Naomi repeats. She seems to consider Michael for awhile, eyes sharp and calculating. Then, she sighs. "I know you had a tough time making friends. I could count on one finger the number of friends you had. Gwyneth’s face takes on a blank look. “We all missed him too."

She stares at Lucifer, arms crossed at the chest and eyes speculative. "How do I know I can trust you?"

"You can't."

"And isn't that the problem?"

"If Lucifer betrayed us, feel free to take my life."

For the second time today, the whole room falls silent as all eyes whips to Michael. Lucifer's eyes widen as he stares at the man beside him, stoic in his standing, unruffled by the attention. Castiel's heart thumps in his chest, a mournful beat. Michael _loves_ Lucifer. Even the blind could see that. He would sacrifice his life for the man he loved. It feels like someone just clawed his heart out of his chest and stomped on it. 

Even Lucifer had someone who loved him. His heart bleeds as he remembers green eyes and freckles but he forces the images down and focus on the scene in front of him. He can't think of him. It's over. It's behind him. Lay it to rest.

"You place such high trust on this man?" Naomi asks, wonder in her voice. Michael nods. She is still for a moment. "You disobey direct orders. You know the rules. Tell me one reason I shouldn't put a bullet in your head right now."

Lucifer shifts in his place, but Michael puts a hand out to stop him. He looks up at Naomi, blue eyes determined and face impassive. The light streaming in from the window casts his face in sharp contrast, defining the angles and plane of his profile. Castiel can't deny that the man is handsome in an archaic way. Like marble statues, stoic filled with hard lines but places them all together, it becomes a thing of beauty. 

"Because I came back. I didn't run. I came back. _Because_ I am loyal. I will accept any punishment you throw at me. Just please, let Lucifer into the fold. He can be of use-" he rushes to add before Naomi talks over him.

"Why do I want an ex-special force in my organization? When they're the ones who hunts us down? When they're the ones who stole my people?" she asks, angry. 

"Lucifer is no longer with the government. You know as well as I do that they think he's dead on his last mission in Lisbon. The last two years, he had worked for us-" At Naomi furious glare, he amends, "With me, we did good work. We never failed an assignment. We never required any emergency extraction or medical attention. We're great together."

"I begged to differ. The Walker fiasco is on every media coverage nationwide. And you-" She points at Lucifer, "is all over the news, a wanted man. They're bound to know you're alive by now, and I'm sure they'll go far and wide to find you. Why do I want the spotlight? Why do I invite trouble by harboring you?"

"Who know how special forces work better than I do? You read my profile. You saw the work I did. I am good, and you know it. Plus, didn't you just mentioned that the forces are after you? I can help with that. I know how they work. I know their game plan. I know these people. I can help you escape their attention. You do this, you’ll be stealing one of their record-breaking agents."

Naomi narrows her eyes. "If I asked, would you kill them?"

"It depends."

"On?"

"I will not kill my friends. Those who saved my neck more than once. Others? I might."

"I don't like the word _might_."

"That's all you're getting until you give me the files. Some of these people, I am not confident I might be able to sneak up on, let alone murder."

"Honest. I like it." Naomi walks around the table and seats herself back in her chair; fingers crossed on her stomach. "One step out of line and you know what will happen. If you care even a little for Michael, please don't do anything stupid. I don't look forward to ending a life I helped molded."

"Now, what do we do about Castiel here?" she asks, swiveling her eyes to meet his own large confused ones. 

During the entire conversation, Castiel feels like he's bombarded with new information after new information. Most of the time, he was stunned silent. Michael is an assassin. This is the headquarter of an organization for assassins. _Assassins._ His head was still trying to adjust to the fact that he's standing in the middle of one of the most dangerous people in the world who could possibly kill him in a blink of an eye when another time bomb is dropped on him.

Lucifer is ex-special forces. He is presumed dead. By everyone. The government. Hired killers. And he ended up in Lawrence as a pimp? How? Why? But before he was able to make sense of the situation, the room's attention is riveted on him, and his heart stops for a moment when Naomi's mention of his name. How does she know his name?

"Castiel Novak. I’ve heard good things about you. Excellent job on the Walker case. Even one of my best-trained agent wasn't able to complete the job," she comments, flicking an eye to Michael. Castiel just stands there, rooted to the spot, not knowing what to do or say. Naomi continues, "According to yesterday's news, you're a person of interest. Is there a reason you brought him here, Michael?"

"We thought-"

"He saved our lives. I promised him protection," Lucifer interrupts. Naomi stares at Lucifer with an annoyed expression. "He's got potential. We could train him."

Naomi stares at Lucifer with an annoyed expression. " _Does_ he wants to be trained? Have you asked him that?" At Lucifer's silence, she turns back to Castiel. 

"Castiel, if I’m not mistaken you’re wanted for the murder of Gordon Walker. They’re kind enough not to indicate that on the new considering you’re underage. But to put it harshly, you're a fugitive now. Even if I want to, I couldn't give you a normal life. What I can offer is a job. You'll be able to earn well, live well, and you don't ever have to be afraid anymore. No more living in fear or uncertainty. You control your fate."

Castiel stares at the lady in front of him, her face gentle and yet there's strength there. He wants to believe her, wants her words to be true. He thought back to all the times he was at the mercy of others, scared and afraid. How helpless he felt when Gordon and his men attacked him and-

He swallows. He’d been scared for so long it feels like it's a part of him. The fear. The panic and anxiety. The dread. And finally, the last nail in the coffin- acceptance. He stares up at Naomi. On some level, he knows that this is the best he could get considering his circumstances. But-

"Do I have to kill people?"

"We do not force you to take jobs. We do not force you to kill. You decide who you think deserves to die. People like Walker. Psychopath, rapist, child molester, whatever fits your specification. Michael, for example, doesn't kill woman or child. So feel free to be as selective as you want."

"But I have to warn you, the demographic of our targets vary depending on current demands. And I do not need to explain that the more jobs you take, the more money you will earn. It's just business. Simple as that. But of course, all business needs to have some ground rules. Remember the three big ones and you'll be fine."

"Number 1: Never disobey a direct order. But if the direct order is against your known principle then it can be forfeited. Number 2: Do not double cross us. Be it with the government, another agency or your family. Please don't. Number 3: Do not take an outside job. When you work with us, you ONLY work for us. Breaking any one of these rules will result in death. We WILL send our best agents for you. And I know you all think you're the best but trust me, I have an arsenal."

"The use of our facilities will not cost you money but using services such as emergency extraction and medical help will cost you. Every job that you take, the agency will receive 40% of the bounty with which we will use to improve our facilities and services as well as train new members. So don't complain. You will never know who the client is and they will never know you. All transaction and communication are held online on our secure hub. That is all you need to know. The other tiny details, Michael can fill you in. Any questions?" 

Everyone is quiet for awhile before Lucifer speaks up. "I have a question."

"Go on."

"I want to know who put the hit on me." Naomi raises her eyebrows. Lucifer pushes on. "Considering that I'm part of the organization now, I am your people. Whoever put the hit out, will continue doing so especially now that I am on the front page of every newspaper and television. They know I am alive. And that you failed."

Naomi narrows her eyes. Michael makes a subtle grab at Lucifer's arm, but the man continues. "He or she will probably place the hit with another agency all of which will do their research. We know we don't want the attention. So, I'm asking your permission to clean up this mess. I will do so without compromising the organization."

"How do I know I can trust you with this delicate matter?"

"I can do this."

"You don't even know who you're dealing with, Lucifer," she says. Something about the way she says it seems ominous. "But you have my permission. Come back tomorrow and I'll have a file for you."

Lucifer nods. "Thank you. I appreciate that."

"Don't thank me. You haven't earned any favors with me." Lucifer clenches his jaw. "But I'm sure you will. Talent such as yourself doesn't come by a lot. And I do have a job that needs your kind of expertise." Before anyone could say anything else, she smiles at Castiel.

"Are you in or out, Castiel?"

It was then that Castiel had sealed his fate with the organization. And it's why he'd been training nonstop under Michael's watchful eyes. The man is a perfectionist. Every activity they had done together are polished to perfection, every aim, every stance, every move are deliberate and seek to cause the most damage. His training is vigorous and grueling, all conducted in the safety of his own home.

Michael's apartment double as an office as well as a living quarter. One part is dedicated entirely to perfecting the craft. He has an armory, shooting ranges, gym, sparring room and who knows what else installed and every day he will take Castiel through the same routine until he was satisfied. Then, he would bring him to the next program, more intensive and terrifying than the last ones. 

Weirdly enough, Castiel takes to it like white on rice. The training distracts him, occupied his mind from straying. The days are filled to the brim with physical exercise, test, and endurance and by the time he hits the sack, he's out like a light. Before he knows it, days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months. Spring had come and gone and in its place the sweltering hot summer. 

Castiel finishes the last magazine of the day and ejects it, arranging them on the bench he's standing at. He inserts a new magazine and pulls the slide before securing the safety catch. Then, he holsters his Beretta M9 and turns to face Michael. Castiel still feels guilty for sleeping with Lucifer that night at the motel. It's obvious these twos are in love but are just too stubborn to admit it.

Michael's demeanor was as dark as the storming sky the next day, and Castiel had felt properly snubbed. Lucifer acted as if nothing was wrong and kept up the light but slightly strain chatter in the car until thirty minutes later when his efforts were obviously ignored. After witnessing how far Michael would go for Lucifer, Castiel had sworn he'll keep his hands off the man. 

But it's easier said than done. Not when nightmares still find him in the middle of the night, and he woke up sweating and panting, heart in his throat. Castiel knows that he no longer felt what he had felt before for Lucifer, and their encounters were mutually destructive. He doesn't know why Lucifer still sleeps with him when it's obvious where his heart lies. And why Michael, who obviously had trouble looking them both in the eyes the next morning, didn't say or do anything.

He feels horrible, but the leftover fear and panic from a nightmare are unbearable alone. His thoughts would stray, and he finds himself missing the comfort of those gentle emerald eyes, the rounded sound of his voice, and-

Stop. 

But his mind is treacherous. He finds himself remembering his fifth day here. The news was on, and the newscaster was detailing the capture of one of Lawrence, Kansas most prominent figure, the Chief of Police, Azazel Labelle. He stayed root in his seat as he watched the man's figure being led away by the Feds in cuffs and then the screen switched and someone else was talking. The person appeared to be standing in front of a courthouse, and all he heard was--

"... the testimony of a resident of the local group home and photographic evidence, Labelle and several others are arrested for allegedly forcing minors into prostitution as well as..."

And his mind froze. They found his camera. Anna. Tess. He stared at the screen blankly, eyes bright. In the distant background, at the far end of the courthouse, he thought he saw a familiar face. Blonde hair, 6ft tall, lean build. His heart stopped. No, it can't be. But the more he looked, the surer he was. He recognized that silhouette anywhere. 

It was Dean. Their witness. It was Dean Winchester. 

\---

Dean is sweating his ass off in the backyard; half his upper body shoved underneath the old car he's currently working on. It's already hot out in the open but stuck beneath the machine, breathing in oil and grease, yep, much worse. He twists the spanner a few time to ensure that the bolt is tightly in place and rolls himself out with the creeper. 

He nearly gets a heart attack when he comes face to face with Sam's sniggering face. "JESUS! Sam! What the hell are you doing?!" he yells turning on his side and rolling off the creeper, clutching his heart. "You scared the crap out of me!"

Sam cackles as he takes a step back, holding his stomach. "That was the intention, Dean," he says between wheeze of laughter. Dean glares at him from the ground, wiping his sweaty brow with the top of his arm, careful not to leave the greasy stain on his face. He pushes himself up and stands, brushing the dirt off the back of his jeans. 

"What are you doing here, buddy? You know you're not allowed back here. Too much stuff lying around. Hey, you could fall on your face and break the other tooth. One chipped tooth isn't enough for you?" he teases, ruffling Sam's shaggy hair. He gets smack for his effort as Sam ducks away, pouting. 

"That was your fault! I tripped over _your_ legs, Dean!" he accuses, one chipped tooth obvious between his plump lips. Sam had a breakdown when he got it, crying his eyes out. Luckily, they had already made an appointment with the dentist next week to get it fixed. But that doesn't mean that he can't squeeze this little titbit for all it's worth while he still can.

"Well, you shouldn't be out here in the first place, Sammy," he scolds, shaking his head as he tosses the spanner back into the toolbox. 

"Dean's right. Now get back into the house before you lose a whole tooth, boy."

Dean turns around and smiles. "Uncle Bobby!" Sam screams, running toward the gruff old man who's striding towards them, the side of his cheek twitching as he forces himself not to laugh. His blue eyes are hidden underneath an old but very obviously cherished baseball cap. Just as Sam's about to reach Bobby, he trips, almost falling onto his face when the old man catches him and hauls him up into his arms. 

"What did I say?" he scolds, shaking his head at a shame-faced Sam. "Idjits," he mutters, ruffling his hair the same way Dean would. Sam quietly accepts it.

"Hey, why can Bobby do that and not me? I call favoritism!" he grumbles. 

"That's because he's Uncle Bobby," Sam shrugs like it's a known fact. “And yes, it’s favoritisisum.”

“Favoritism,” Dean autocorrects.

“Favorisum,” Sam tries. Dean shakes his head fondly.

"You got the car fixed, boy?"

"Yes, sir." Dean grabs the car keys and climbs into the car. He put the keys in the ignition and starts the car. The car rumbles to life, the sound smooth and easy on the ears unlike its clanking and chugging earlier this morning. "See?" he says, peeking his head out the car door.

"Good job, Dean. Now take your brother inside while I take this to Rufus. That man breaks his car like once every month. I told him thousands of time to exchange this piece of junk because it'll just cost him more money to maintain it than to toss it into the salvage yard. But will he listen? No!" Bobby grumbles as he puts Sam down and jumps into the car, slamming the door shut. 

"I'll be back in about an hour of so. Rufus owes me a nice strong drink for this," he calls through the open window. 

"I was the one who fixed up the car, Bobby," he teases goodnaturedly. 

"Ah shut up. What Rufus doesn't know won't hurt him," he winks, waves goodbye and drives off. The car speeds over a few bumps before turning left outside Bobby's large backyard and onto the dirt road. Dean and Sam waves until the car is just a speck covered by the gust of dust it stirs up. 

"Alright, buddy, let's get you inside before any more accidents happen, okay?" Dean takes Sam by the hand and leads him inside, careful to avoid the scrap parts littering the backyard. Bobby is a car hobbyist. He likes collecting spare parts and helps the folks around town to tweak and service up their car. In return, they will bake him cookie or cake or in some cases, offer him a drink of Johny Walker Blue. 

Dean throws open the door to the kitchen and goes straight to the sink. Turning on the tap, he quickly rinses his hands and squeezes out a good chunk of soap to scrub at the grime and oil in his nails. It probably won't go off, but at least, it wouldn't transfer if he subconsciously wipes at his face. Something he did once or twice that Sam found exceedingly amusing. 

His shirt is sticking to his back and as dirty as the rag he cleans himself with. He thinks it's best if he just take a shower. It might cool him down a bit. Sweating like a pig and stinking up the place are both not appealing options right now. Especially with the humidity inside. Phew, it definitely smells like dog in here.

"Hey, are you hungry? Or can you wait until I take a shower to make us some peanut butter sandwiches?"

"I can wait. Don't want you touching anything with those hands," Sam says without looking up, attention focused on the books in front of him. That boy is still reading even when it's summer break. Dean shakes his head fondly and walks over to Sam, massaging the back of his small neck. 

"Okay, I'll be back in a few." 

Sam nods and Dean continues into the hallway and up the stairs. He reaches the room at the end of the upstairs hallway and opens the door. Once inside, he walks over to his desk by the window. Above the table are pictures taped to the wall. 

"Hey, Cas," he greets, staring at the smiling couple. Every time he sees this, he can’t help the maudlin feeling from creeping up on him. He doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse that he’s allowed to keep this. This proof that what he and Castiel had was real. That it wasn’t just his imagination. That they were happy. 

They were, weren’t they? But why does it feels like all that’s left is hurt and sadness? A sort of yearning that never ends. A hole in his chest that just grow bigger and bigger. That can’t be filled with daily activities, Sam’s laughter or Bobby’s company. It’s a part of him that always remains empty. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there staring at the photo. He does this every single time. He will stand there and memorize Castiel's face, the color of his eyes. The sort of blue that reminds him of the summer sky. But could also be the hurricane in an ocean when they grow dark, somber. Sad.

And the worse part of it all is that, even though Castiel is smiling in the picture, kissed-swollen lips stretched wide in a smile, there’s a glimmer of resignation in the way he stared at the camera. Does he know then what he doesn’t say? The known fact that Dean will be leaving but trying hard to pretend that nothing has changed?

He’s the one who put that look on Castiel’s face. He was the selfish one. The one who never listens. The one with all the problems. It’s always him him _him_. And the fucked up part? He _saw_ exactly how hard the kill hit Castiel. Saw it in the way he blanked out sometimes. The soulless eyes and expressionless face. And what did he do? He let Castiel silent him again and again. And the guy didn’t even have to try hard!

A kiss. A peck. A touch. That’s all it took for Dean to get sidetracked. And he let the rotten, self-hatred part of Castiel infest and grow and then it was too late. Dean fucking knew Castiel was suicidal, and still he decided to leave! What kind of fucking asshole is he?! No wonder Castiel took off and never looked back.

Dean leans his forehead against the picture and closes his eyes. He was a coward. He let himself be blinded, distracted because he can’t face the truth. He was leaving Castiel for dad. If push comes to shove, he will always choose his family above all. That’s who he is. And Castiel deserves better. He deserves someone who can put him in first place. And that someone isn’t him. 

He has no right to moan or complain. He has no right at all. Honestly, he wouldn’t know what to say to Gabriel if or when the police find him. Sorry? Like that is of any use. Sorry no cure, fucker. You can take your sorry and shove it. Shaking his head, a derisive smile forming on his face, he pushes up. 

He gives the photo one last long look before grabbing the towel hanging over his chair and heads to the bathroom outside. Stripping out of his dirty clothes and throwing them into the hamper, he steps into the shower, sighing as the fresh cool water beats down on him. He can feel the sweat and grime rinse off him, leaving him clean. He scrubs body soap over his chest, stomach and groin then wash his hair.

Five minutes later, he steps out the shower dripping wet. Grabbing the towel, he dries himself, scrubbing his head furiously before wrapping it around his hips. He moves to stand in front of the mirror, averting his eyes as he focuses on squeezing toothpaste onto his toothbrush. Turning around, he brushes his teeth. 

After his confession, Gabriel Ward- the person in charged of the case back in Lawrence, made word on his promises and captured everyone who was involved in the affairs at the group home. One managed to escape, however. Alastair Creely. Dean closes his eyes. He's glad the scars are on his back so that he doesn't have to face the physical evidence of what happened during his three months at the godforsaken place. The place they were sent to because dad went missing. 

Thinking about dad makes his insides hurt. The man had disappointed them again and again but still he can't help but longed for his return, prayed for his safety. He kept wondering what happened. Why dad hadn't come when he said he will. And how only a few days later, Uncle Bobby arrived at the home holding his phone with an address and the word DEAN on it. 

John had sent Bobby that text. The text that told him where Dean was. He was confused and scared. Did something happen that kept his dad from coming to them? Why did he send Bobby when the man never asked anyone for help before? 

To make matter worse, the last thing John said to him still haunts him. _"I found out what happened." "Your mom was murdered."_ The scary part is, he sounds completely sober and sure. But that can't be. They had already investigated the case over and over. Mom's death was ruled an accident. Case closed. Even Bobby, his dad's partner when he was still working at the precinct, was sure about it. But his tone...

Crazy man talks, that's what it is, Dean. Don't overread the situation. He's glad his dad had the presence of mind to text Bobby. They had tried to track and trace the text and even with Bobby's law enforcement advantage; they got nothing. It seems like wherever the text came from, the phone is long gone or destroyed. 

If Dean thinks too long or hard about it, especially in the middle of the night when he would wake up in a cold sweat, then the agitation and trepidation that prickles at his subconscious feels real. When the light doesn’t shine and shadows lurk. The niggling feeling becomes a very real fear that something may have happened to his dad. 

But in the daytime, when it's bright and sunny, and Sam is laughing, and Bobby is gruffly joking, it's hard to summon this fear out into the open. The scenario seems so unlikely; it makes him feel paranoid just thinking about it. Just like dad. And he doesn't want to turn into dad. So he ignores it and focuses on getting through the days. 

It was hard at first. Getting used to the normal life after what he'd been through. After losing Castiel. The guilt and regret are fused into his being, buried so deep he doesn't think he'll be able to dig it out. And he doesn't want to. It’s probably why he hung up their picture in the first place. To remind himself of what he’d done. To the one person who had done nothing but give them his all. Castiel sacrifices everything for them, and now, he's gone. Location unknown. Alive or dead, he doesn't know. 

Since Castiel is underage, the news only stated that he's a person of interest and is one of Lucifer’s victims. Dean thinks that’s Gabriel's doing, and he’s eternally grateful for it. Still, after three months without news, it hard to stay optimistic. They also urged the citizen to call the police if they see the child. The man he’s with is abusive and dangerous. 

Don’t he know it? Lucifer was the one who made Castiel into what he is. The one who used Castiel’s feelings for him and manipulated it into something ugly. Now doesn’t that seems familiar? Dean knew all that. Castiel told him everything. Still, he had let Castiel went with the man. There’s a special place in hell with his name on it. 

The news announced that there's an active manhunt for Lucifer, identifying him as the mastermind of the child prostitution scandal back in Lawrence. The one who used his authority over the home to forced the children into the lifestyle with the help of key members of the society including Lawrence High’s principal, Fergus Crowley, Chief of Police, Azazel Labelle and warden, Alastair Creely and a few others.

So he's definitely on the run, and knowing the man, he could be volatile. If cornered, he would probably choose to go down fighting. He just hopes Castiel wouldn't get caught in the crossfire because if something bad were to happen- 

Dean turns around and spits into the sink. He doesn't want to think about it anymore. He can’t. Because if he does, the guilt and self-loath are enough to drown him. And maybe he deserves it, but he can’t lose his head. Not now when there’s more important thing to focus on. Find Castiel. Alive. And safe. Only then can he look himself in the mirror and not hate the person looking back.

At least, with Sam, he can heave a sigh of relief. He appreciates Bobby's effort to get guardianship of them. Dean is almost 18, so it's not really necessary anymore but Sam- He's glad the boy finally gets to have an adult presence in his life. He misses his dad, but he can't deny the fact that life with Bobby is good for Sam. He needs normal. Stability. Not life on the road like a drifter. 

He gurgles and wipes his mouth. Without looking up, he turns to leave. 

\---

Lucifer stares at the man at his feet. Blood gurgles out of his mouth as he tries to speak. Lifting his foot from the man's throat, he takes a step back. 

"Again. And this time, I want to hear answers." In a slow and deliberate tone, he enunciates. "Why did you ordered a hit on me?"

The man continues to gurgle blood on the ground, twitching in place, tears soaking up his bloodied and bruised face. "It... It... It wasn't," he breaks off as blood clogs his throat. Lucifer rolls his eyes. He probably shouldn't have shot him in the lungs. This makes interrogation exceedingly difficult. 

"Come one, you can do it. Just spit it out and I will end this quickly," he urges. 

"It wasn't- It wasn't my idea," the man gurgles out, wet and disgusting.

Lucifer frowns. "I thought so. Someone sent you. Who?"

"I don't- I don't know. It's the truth. Please..." he begs. 

Lucifer crouches down on the floor beside the man and lifts his head with the butt of his gun. "You must know something. Tell me and I'll put a bullet through your head and not your gut." He moves the muzzle of his gun to the man's belly. 

"No no no please don't," he pleads, shaking and shivering as he sobs. "All... All I know was that there's a million dollar bounty on your head. But no one was able to find out much about you after your-" The man succumbs to a fit of coughs, more blood spittle flying out his mouth. Lucifer moves back, avoiding the spray. "After Lisbon," he wheezes. 

"So I thought, I order a hit and pay a sum and collect the million. I'm sorry. That's all I know. Please!" The man clutches at his jeans leg, smearing blood everywhere. He kicks the man grip away, standing up. 

"Where did you get whiff of the million dollars bounty? I never heard of it. And trust me, I would know."

"It's an independent hit floating around on Tor. Log on and do some digging. You'll find it," he whispers, breathing getting labored. 

"Okay, I trust you." Without much ceremony, he shoots the man in the head, watches as the spray of brain matter splatters onto the cement floor. He wipes his shoe on the man's suit pants and steps away. Taking one last long look at his surroundings, he walks away. 

The view from the abandoned building on the quay is spectacular. The sky is stripped bloody red and fiery orange from the setting sun. The water is calm, reflecting the bleeding sky and the sound of the waves hitting the pier is soothing. He takes a deep breath of salty air and closes his eyes. The distant noise of seagulls adds to the ambient atmosphere. He lets out a soft exhale and opens his eyes. 

Holstering his Glock, he strides down the lone pier to his rental car. Time to head back to Chicago.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tone and storytelling feel a bit different in the second installment. I hope it's still good. *sweat nervously*

The smell of something delicious cooking wafts through the living room. Castiel's stomach rumbles. It's almost seven in the evening, and he had an early lunch due to his training. He looks up from his book to peer around the corner in the vague direction of the kitchen. As usual, he can see Michael flitting from the kitchen island to the stove and back, hands always full with either a spatula or bottles of spices.

His stomach makes a sad sound again as another waft of cooked meat invades the room. Sighing, he puts the book down and takes out his phone. Should he? He swipes the screen and hesitates, finger hovering over the Facebook icon. At the moment, the phone belongs to the company. He hasn't earned his share yet, but in order to work, Castiel needs a phone and Naomi had ordered one for him. 

Before his father passed away, he used to have a phone and naturally social media. But since his time at the group home, he was denied this privilege and now that he's able to reaccess his online world, it feels different, strange. Being the school's outcast and mostly ignored at home, the internet was his escape like his books. It might seem like the natural thing to do, to get back online since anonymity is a sure thing. 

No one knows him. No one knows his past. No one knows what he'd done or what had been done to him. He's a clean slate. He can be anyone he wants. Play pretend. Forget he’s a lonely kid because the internet doesn't care. You’re always welcome. Same interest? Yes, let’s talk more! You’re a fan of Vonnegut? Let’s fanboy together! And you can let yourself forget your real life problems for awhile. 

But for some reason, it doesn’t hold the same appeal as it used to. But for some reason, it doesn’t hold the same appeal as it used to. He can't summon the energy to socializes and things that used to hold his interest just doesn't anymore. Everything feels too much. Too much work. Too much energy. Chatting up strangers feels more strenuous than the training Michel puts him through. Plus, what can he even share? Hello. I got sucker punch today learning how to give a killing blow. That would go over well.

He supposed he could talk about his feelings. But then again, he doesn't even know how he's feeling nowadays. Some days, he just goes through the motion. Wake up, train, eat, train, eat, train, sleep. Some days, even waking up is hard. Green eyes plague his dream and make him aches. And then he would get mad at himself for thinking of him. For wanting things he can't have. 

He stares at the blue icon, deliberating. Closing his eyes, he taps the screen. The app open up to a homepage. The name Jimmy N. is displayed at the top right corner. The profile picture is of him standing in front of a window, head turned to the side so that his face is casted in shadows. Only his mop of messy hair can be seen and one side of his jawline. The only activity on his timeline is that of one profile: Dean Winchester.

He smiles. Dean's profile picture is of him with his brother, Sam. He's ruffling the kid's hair, laughing as Sam tries to squirm away. It's a candid picture. He wonders who took it. It must have been recent because Dean uploaded it almost a month ago. That's when his timeline starts to show signs of life after two months of inactivity. 

He stares at the picture and feels his heart warm at the sight of Dean laughing, the lines at the corner of his eyes crinkling up. The summer must be working its magic on Dean. He looks healthy, tanned. His freckles seem to have double in amount, standing out on his cheeks and arms. His dirty blonde hair seems to grow lighter as well, almost golden now. And his eyes, the green is like sunlight shining through a glass of absinthe, shimmering and alive. He looks good. Happy. Castiel is glad. 

He scrolls down his timeline and pauses when he sees a new picture Dean had uploaded. He is standing in front of a car; thumbs up and one arm around a grouchy looking man who looked like he'd been forced into the picture. The caption reads: About to fix my tenth car! @Rufus you owe me a drink, not Bobby ;-)

Bobby. He didn't tag Bobby. He clicks on Rufus's name and is redirected to Rufus Turner's profile. His profile picture is of an angry looking black man with receding hairline drinking Johny Walker Blue. He scrolls through his timeline for a bit, sees a few interaction between him and Dean before stumbling upon a picture of him and Bobby in an office setting. It looks to be the inside of a police station. 

The caption reads: My partner and me. Sioux Fall's finest. 

He'd already known Dean is in Sioux Falls based on his Facebook info, though how he came to be there, he never did figure out. He thought that maybe his father might have brought him there, but there's no mentioning of the man in any of Dean's Facebook activities. He googled Bobby and Sioux Fall plus police station, and a result pops up. It's an online article about a car accident in Sioux Falls six years ago. Heading the article is the title: Tragic Loss for Sioux Fall's PD. 

Castiel frowns and clicks open the article. His heart stops when he reads the names in the first paragraph. Detective John Winchester lost loving wife, Mary Winchester to a tragic car accident, leaving an 11-year-old son, Dean Winchester and six months old infant, Sam Winchester without a mother. Among attendees were longtime partner and friend, Detective Robert "Bobby" Singer- 

He scans through the names, noting that Rufus wasn’t listed as being there. But what attracts his attention the most was the photo at the bottom of the article. It's a black and white picture of the funeral. There's a gathering of people at the service, but his eyes are drawn only to the three figure standing in front of the grave.

John is standing with his hands in his pocket, posture stiff and very obviously grieving. Dean looks small beside his father, carrying a bundle that must be Sam in his arms. His heart aches at the picture they made. Even then, Dean was already responsible for Sam. So young. And yet there’s so much grief. So much sadness. He closes the article. 

Dean never told him about this. Never mentioned his mother before. But looking back, it’s not that odd. Dean has a complicated relationship with his family. Castiel can tell that Dean loves them. But he can also tell that there’s some underlying tension between Dean and his dad. Every time the man is brought up, his demeanor changed. Maybe the reason he never mentioned his mother is because it’s still a sore subject even after all these years. Castiel lost his mother when he was young too. But lucky or unlucky for him, he was still too young to understand when his mother stopped coming home.

He sighs and returns to Facebook. Blip! A notification appears on his messenger. He stares at it for a moment, not moving before finally clicking it open. 

hey jimmy, u r back! where had u been? did u manage to fix ur car? :)

Castiel swallows. His car. Right. He starts to type 'Hello, De-' before backspacing and retypes his message. 

_Hi, Dean. Yes, I did. Your suggestion was very helpful. Thank you._

no worries. thats what the group is for.

Castiel stares at the small screen. He doesn't know how to reply to that. A few weeks after he'd gotten his phone, he downloaded the Facebook app. Of course, he couldn't access his own profile anymore, since the police are probably keeping tabs on it, so he opened a new account under his middle name, James aka 'Jimmy'. 

Against his better judgement, the first thing he did was searched Dean's name. Dean had his profile on private, so all he can see was his profile picture and little tidbits like favorite movie, music and groups he'd joined. And that's when Castiel did the most stupid thing he'd done ever since he arrived here. He made contact. 

Dean is part of a mechanic group on Facebook where people get advice on topics related to cars, buying and selling of spare parts, and mechanics sharing their knowledge and expertise. It's a small community, but the people are genuinely friendly and helpful. 

Castiel joined the group and reacted to one of Dean's post. They started talking and soon, Dean sent him a friend request. And he's suddenly privy to all of Dean's personal posts. He saw pictures of Sam and him, his steady stream of post about cars and snapshots of engines and his daily status updates. Dean is fairly active and not just to update, but he also comments and reacts to his friend's post, making jokes and is genuinely interested. Unlike him.

He'd kept his profile as basic as possible and edited his privacy setting so that Dean couldn't see that the only person on his friend list is him. He knows this is unhealthy, and considering his chosen lifestyle, he should really leave Dean in peace. He tried. He honestly did. Because the days that he spent online interacting with Dean brought some of the worst nights. Nights that had him ending up in Lucas's bed. So yes, he shouldn't be talking to Dean right now. 

He continues to stare as Dean starts to type and a moment later a new message appears. 

still there?

_Yes._

not really a talker r u

_I don't know what to say._

hahah well lucky 4 u i can talk 4 the both of us. i fixed my 10th car 2day. gotta say, im pretty proud of myself. 

_Yes, I saw the picture you posted. Who's Bobby?_

hes a family friend. tho hes not gng 2 b happy bout the pic. luckily he doesnt have fb. i wouldnt hear the end of it. that man can whine!

_You looked good._

Castiel freezes. He hadn't meant to type that. 

oh. umm... tq :">

Before he can reply, Dean is typing again. 

u remind me of someone. 

_Who?_

Castiel's heart is hammering in his chest as he waits for Dean's reply. He can see Dean starts to type then stop and then start up again. 

:) u should post a real pic of urself. 

He stares at the words staring back at him. It's obvious Dean is trying to change the topic. He doesn't know what he expected. Even if Dean did mention him, what can he say? He can't tell Dean his real identity. He can't implicate Dean in his predicament. 

_I'm self conscious._

why? r u ugly? ;) ur jawline looks mighty fine 2 me

Castiel blushes. He takes a quick peek at his profile picture again just to be sure that it's anonymous enough that Dean wouldn't be able to recognize him. On closer inspection, he's able to see his almost permanent scruff along a clear-cut jaw. Based on his silhouette, he looks lean with a strong neck and his messy bedhead gives him a comfy homely vibe. His features are cast in shadows, hiding his sharp defined profile, startling blue eyes, and pale lips. 

_Thank you._

dont thank me. just telling it the way i see it ;) seriously tho, we have been talking 4 weeks now n i still dont know how u look like. how is that fair?

_It's not._

*pouts*

_Don't pout, Dean. It doesn't become you._

*sticks tongue out*

_Now you're just being childish._

:S how bout this? every time we meet online, u start with a simple fact bout urself.

_Why would I do that?_

ill do the same. trade of info. 

_Why do you care who I am? I'm just a stranger on the internet._

idk. i guess im just curious. ur different. 4get i said it. didnt mean to get up in ur business. sorry.

_Don't get me wrong, Dean. I would love to exchange information with you. I was just curious as to why you're interested._

idk. feels right. i want to know u jimmy.

Castiel freezes. He stares at the words, hearing those words spoken in a soft, gentle voice. _I want to know you, Cas._ His heart stutters. He knows it's a bad idea to come back online. His fingers tremble as he types in a quick reply. 

_I got to go. Dinner. Bye, Dean._

Dean starts typing immediately, but he closes the app and logs out, silencing his phone before turning it off and stuffing it under the couch cushion. He pulls his legs up and wraps his arms around them, making himself as small as possible. His eyes start to water as he squeezes his knees tightly. He's not going to cry. He's not. 

The sudden loud rattling sounds of a tray being taken out from the oven startled him. He glances up just as Michael looks over, catching his eyes. The man frowns and stops in his tracks. Castiel tries to relax his muscles and shoves the tears back. He takes a deep breath and releases his death grip on his legs. 

"Dinner's ready," Michael announces, returning to his pot of stew, stirring it with a spatula and tasting it. 

Castiel pushes himself up and stands on shaky legs. He hunches over as his sore ribs protests the movement, holding a hand up to his sides. Slowly, he makes his way to the kitchen. Just as he sits down at the dining table, Michael calls to him. He glances up, and thanks to his recent training, his reflects are fast enough for him to catch the icepack flying across the room at him. 

"For your ribs," Michael explains as he carries two bowls of steaming hot stew over. He places one in front of Castiel and pulls a chair for himself. He cocks an eyebrow at him when all Castiel does is clutches the icepack like an assbutt.

He lifts up his t-shirt and presses the icepack on the bruise that is starting to form at his sides. As soon as the icepack touches his skin, he hisses and closes his eyes. He holds it there until he starts feeling his sides getting numb before he opens his eyes and looks up. 

Michael is smirking at him, spooning stew out of his steaming bowl into his mouth. Using his left hand to hold the icepack in place, he picks up his spoon and takes a scoop of hot thick goulash. The beef melts in his mouth, and he has to close his eyes again from the sudden burst of flavor on his tongue. 

"Unngh," he groans licking the spoon clean. 

"That good?" Michael asks amusement coloring his voice.

Castiel opens his eyes and nods, blushing a little. "I was very hungry," he explains. "Thank you for cooking."

Michael smiles as he takes another spoonful of the stew. He chews for a bit and swallows before answering, "You're welcome. At least _someone_ appreciates my cooking and not whine and complain all the time."

Castiel stares at his bowl, unsure of what to say to that. He continues to eat to silently. Lucifer can be quite mouthy sometimes, but that's because he's bored from being confined inside for so long. They were banned from going outside by Naomi, not when the police were hot on their trails and the trial was front page news every day. 

The trial took about a month and a half before Crowley and Azazel were found guilty and sentenced. It had taken another few more weeks before the media stopped displaying their pictures all over the news. The moment he got the green light, Lucifer was gone like the wind. Naomi had given him the file containing the information of the person who wanted him dead as promised and he had been poring over it throughout his confinement. 

But there was only so much he can research and prepare. By the time he hit the second week, he was driving himself up the wall and irritated Michael and Castiel in the process. They stayed away from him most of the time, unable to take his idiosyncrasy. He would follow them around like a hyperactive puppy begging for attention and at other time would suddenly shout out, "Good morning, Vietnam!", "Ay, Caramba!" or "Mi Cabeza!"

Sometimes, he would pout like a childish kid, complaining about anything and everything. Most of the time, he would succeed in egging Michael into a bickering match. And they would go on for hours, shooting daggers at each other, throwing snide remarks across the room and overall being both petty and trivial. Castiel doesn't think he will ever understand their relationship. 

"He called saying he'll be back sometime tonight or tomorrow morning," Michael adds. Castiel looks up and nods. 

"Did he killed the man who did it?" he asks. 

Michael nods. Castiel looks down at his bowl of stew, unsure of how to feel about it, knowing that a man is dead, and Lucifer is the one who ended his life. It seems surreal that this is his life now. That one day he would be the one deciding who should live and die. The one pulling the trigger. The one taking lives. He shivers.

Subconsciously he knows he's being prepped for the lifestyle, but the whole concept has yet to really sink in. The sparring lessons he underwent with Michael, learning to block and attack felt like martial art lessons aim to improve your body health and for self-defense purposes. At least, it started that way until the past few weeks. The attacks got brutal and more vicious, aiming for weak spots on the body. 

It's a painful process that Castiel soon found out the hard way. He got karate chop in the throat once when he failed to block Michael's attack and had lost his voice for days. His kidneys suffered, and bruises marred his body for weeks. He also passed out a few times during lessons when Michael demonstrated a swift chokehold that will render your opponent unconscious in mere seconds. 

There was also the weapon training. When he'd seen the collection of knives Michael had, he wondered if they were really necessary. One blade would do the trick. Right? Not right. Before the practical came the theory. He had to learn the names of each knife; BC-41, push dagger, SOG Seal knife, Fixation Bowie, etc., it's specialty, when and how to use it before he moved on to other weapons littering the room. 

There were items that he'd never seen before let alone knew existed like chain whips, ninja foot spikes which he learned was for climbing and a set of adorable keychain called Wild Kat Keychain, used to stab someone in the eyes. And they were legal to carry around. Of course, there were other more familiar weapons like brass knuckles, throwing stars, nunchucks, batons and what appeared to be a thick bundle of rope. Even with his boy scout experience, he never knew that many knots existed in this world. 

Then comes the firearms. When Castiel first went into the armory, it's like stepping into an action movie. The room is all black, and the walls were lit with artificial lighting accentuating the numbers of guns lining up the walls on all three sides. With these, however, he was a natural. He soon found his favorite gun to use, a Beretta M9, which Michael approved of and had been practicing with it ever since. 

The notion that all his skills and training would go into murdering someone in his near future should scare him. But it doesn't, and it troubles him. _"Are you a killer, Castiel?"_ Gordon's voice taunts him every waking hour as he emptied his bullets into the paper target in front of him. Memories of his mutilated face, his foul breath, his unwanted touch make him sick. Maybe he is a killer. If he gets to rid the world of people like Gordon Walker then maybe being a killer isn't such a bad thing. 

"But he's not the person he wanted."

"Hmm?" Castiel asks, distracted by his own morbid thoughts. 

"Someone else is behind the hit. Luke will brief us more on the situation when he comes home. In the meantime, we're going out."

Castiel looks up surprised. Although Naomi had given them permission to leave the house, Castiel had never once stepped foot outside the apartment since the first day he arrived here. "Why?" he asks, eyes wide. They're not going on a job, are they? No matter what his disturbing mind is telling him, he's not ready to kill anyone. 

The corner of Michael's mouth turns up. "You're learning to drive tonight."

\---

Dean stares up at Bobby's old work phone and closes his eyes, arm over his face. He was lying in bed, legs crossed at the ankles, innocently scrolling through his Messenger when he saw Jimmy coming online. It had been two weeks since he heard from the guy, not after his very detailed picturesque explanation of how to conduct an oil change.

Who would have ever thought Dean Winchester loves cars? Maybe it shouldn't come as such a big surprise. They did spent a lot of time on the road in his dad's 67' Chevy Impala. Time and again, Dean had to help out with the car maintenance or sometimes, even fixed it. He thinks one of the reasons he finds comfort in it is from the number of time his dad and him had slaved under the burning sun over the hood of the car. Father and son bonding over the beast of a machine they called their home. 

John Winchester adores the Impala. Dean smiles as he recalls the day he first set eyes on the black beauty. Mom was five months pregnant with Sam, and they needed a bigger car from the old beat up coupe they had. Against Mary's advice to buy a minivan, John returned with the Impala smiling from ear to ear with his chest out, eyes shining with excitement as he recited a well-rehearsed speech, words tripping over one another before Mary put a hand over his mouth and just smiled.

When Dad worked on the car, Dean would always be nearby, sitting on a small stool watching or sometimes, standing at the front of the car as his dad pointed out all the components. “This here is the sparkplug. That’s the antifreeze- don’t want to touch that. Belts, battery, engine oils, air filter,” and he would go on and on as Dean listened, eyes wide. Even after his mom's death and dad went off the reservation, they still spent time together fixing the Impala. It's one of those moments Dean treasured with his dad. 

And when he saw the makeshift salvage yard in Bobby's backyard, he drooled. Bobby taught him a thing or two about car reparation and maintenance and the rest he picked up himself, spending days, weeks, months outside picking apart the junk cars and figuring out the different parts and component. He'd even got a job as a part-time mechanic at the local auto repair shop. 

It feels wrong if he weren't, at least, contributing a little. He doesn't want to just leech off Bobby's kindness and generosity. It was then that he realized that he needed more professional help than what Bobby could provide. Ash, his boss, is a great mentor, but he doesn't want to bug the guy too much. The dude always seems to be busy. 

Hence, the Facebook group. People are more than willing to help, giving sound advice and sometimes, he could even buy cheaper spare parts from the group than anywhere else. Not that he does, but it's a consideration when he gets a car of his own. The community is helpful, and Dean enjoys contributing back, giving tips and advice when possible. That's when he met Jimmy. 

Jimmy replied to one of his comment to a feed 'Why isn't my car starting?' stating that he had the same problem. Being the part-time mechanic that he is, he asked the usual questions before figuring out that the guy just needs an oil change. But Jimmy either doesn't know a thing about cars or just can't grasp the concept, it took Dean days to explain how it works, making pictures and sending it off to the guy. 

Jimmy is... weird. He talks funny and overly formal for online chats. Who types in capital and commas and spells everything out in full? Okay, so maybe only Dean doesn't but still, most people, at least, doesn't bother with the caps. And the way he talks, it's just _different._ And Dean is hooked. Jimmy makes him laugh. His understanding of pop culture is bare minimum at best and when he asked what 'idk' means, Dean snorts.

i don't know.

_If you don't know what it means, why do you use it?_

Dean burst out laughing, causing Sam to jerk his head up in alarm. Yeah, Jimmy is something else. But since two weeks ago, he went MIA and now that he's back, he feels off. Distant somehow. He wonders if everything is alright with the guy. His profile is basic. His timeline picture is nonexistent. The only picture he has is his profile pic. And what other else he can glean of the guy is his favorite books. Even his about section is blank. 

If it were some other person, Dean would think that it's a fake profile but considering Jimmy lack of knowledge of internet talks and reference, maybe that's just how he is. Maybe he's a fifty-something years old dude or a paranoid shut-in who had his privacy setting on the highest. 

Sighing, he removes his arm from his face and holds up his phone overhead. He clicks open Jimmy's profile picture again. He doesn't look like an old man. He looks to be the same age as Dean, to be honest. His body buildup is like that of a teenager. Well, at least, up to the point where Dean can see which isn't much. The picture cuts off at his chest. 

He told Jimmy that he looked familiar. He stares across the room at the photos hanging on the wall. Jimmy reminds him of Castiel. He grips his phone tight against his chest, staring up at the ceiling. He knows he's projecting. He misses Castiel so much it's not strange for him to be clinging to the next best thing. Someone whom his mind can manipulate to look or seem like Castiel. And isn't that just pathetic?

\---

It's a 7 hours drive from Pittsburg to Chicago. His watch shows that it's 8:30 pm. He stares out at the dark road ahead debating if he should make a stopover and continues the drive tomorrow morning or if he should bite it and drive the whole way tonight. He'll probably be back around 4 am. 

He taps his fingers on the steering wheels, pursing his lips. He supposes there is no rush in going back. And he's tired. It takes a lot of energy to torture someone and that crying coward, Finnick proved to be gutsier than he expected. Maybe because he thought he had a chance at killing Lucifer and get that million dollar bounty. 

He had let himself be detected by that piece of shit, visiting the grocery store knowing that he will be there. As expected, the man followed him. If he's a hired killer than he's a poor example of one. His movements are clumsy and even if Lucifer weren't already paying attention, anyone with a sense of surrounding would have noticed him trailing behind. One sharp corner and a few seconds later, Finnick came blundering into his muzzle. 

The rest is history. He took the man to an abandoned pier just outside of town and spent hours trying to pry the information out of him. Browsing through Naomi's file, he knew this couldn't be the man responsible for his hit. Finnick is a freelancer, often accepting small cases like small time gangs related hits. He's smart enough to stay out of the police radar, but he's dumb enough to owe a big time mobster. 

It is obvious then that something is amiss. He paid Naomi $60,000 up front for a hit of $200,000. If the hit on him were indeed a million, then the bastard would have swallowed $800,000 for himself. He's just glad that the timing was right. No one knows where he was or if he was even alive ever since his last case two years ago. He went completely off the grid. Or else, he'll probably have more dickheads hunting his ass down every waking minute. 

Which sparks the question of why now? He went completely off the grid. MIA. So why would someone ordered a hit on him out of the blue? Who had he offended 6-7 months ago that wanted him dead when he’d been ‘inactive’? Someone with that kind of money too. No one. Every cases he took the past years with Michael were executed in stealth. Plus, the circle of people he moved in had changed drastically. From the law to offenders. No one knew he was Lucifer. No one should recognize him. 

He thinks back to what Finnick had said. _If_ his words can be trusted. 

Tor or better known as The Onion Router is a free software that enables anonymous communication online. The Internet traffics are directed through a free, worldwide, volunteer network consisting of more than seven thousand relays, allowing users to hide their location and thwart any or all network surveillance or traffic analysis. Because of its anonymity, many black market transactions are conducted on Tor. 

Lucifer used to work with it when he was monitoring the market's supply and demands of terrorist products. An influx of arsenals or potential weapon of mass destruction floating around the net. The network is also a good way to infiltrate the enemy's communication by going undercover, posing as persons who're interested in buying or selling of a particular merchandise. 

Now that his face was plastered all over the news, he's sure the hunt for his head will be top priority on many hitmen's lists. Especially those uncontracted ones. The crazies. Michael was right. If he hadn't taken the job, Naomi would have sent worse assassins after him and who knows if he'll survive their attempts. And that's what concerns him the most. He shouldn't be out alone. He needs to get back to Michael and brief him on what's happening. And Castiel. Particularly Castiel.

Anyone who's associated with him is in danger. Anyone people thinks could be used as collateral to lure him out. At least, Michael managed to stay off the news. But Castiel was portrayed as his hostage or victim, someone he 'cared' enough to take on the run. He worries that they would go for Castiel to come after him. He can't let that happened. Not when the whole reason he took Castiel with them was to protect him. Keep him safe. He can't let what happened with Gordon Walker happens again. He's not going to make the same mistake twice. 

The one thing he can take comfort from is that Castiel is safe in the apartment with Michael. He knows Michael will take good care of him. 

He sighs as he drives passed a motel. Despite how tired he feels, it's best if he arrives back as soon as possible. With that thought in mind, he steps on the gas and settles in for a long drive, making sure not to violate any traffic law as he goes. He turns up the volume on the radio and sings along to the opening of "Stairway To Heaven."

\---

Driving is fun. 

That's what Castiel thought as he flies past the stretches of trees on either side of the lonely road. He smiles as he grips the steering wheels with both hands, foot on the pedal and feels the rush of adrenaline courses through his vein as the car vrooms forward when he changed gears. With every mile he puts behind him, he feels lighter like every mile is a problem he can't solve or emotion he can't identify. Driving on this long stretch of road, he feels his troubles and worries leave him like the trail of road in his rearview mirror. 

He feels free. 

Switching gears again, he takes the car a notch faster, hitting almost 160 miles per hour. He can't stop the grin from spreading across his face. His breathing becomes heavy, eyes feverish with excitement. He doesn't dare take his eyes off the road to check on Michael at his side who had been quiet since he taught Castiel the basic three-quarter of an hour ago. He supposed Michael would say something if he's doing anything wrong, so he takes Michael's silent as a sign of approval and enjoys the moment. 

Michael took them to a secluded area at the outskirt of Chicago. They left the house around midnight. Since Castiel had never driven before, Michael thinks it's best if they went at a time when most people were sleeping. The drive to the spot took them about 45 minutes. It's a forest-like area, winding roads lasting for about 24 miles before it reaches a lookout point. 

Then, he had shown him the hand brakes, gears, foot brakes, clutch and gas pedal and explained how they worked before he got out and told Castiel to try it. At first, Castiel was nervous, not wanting to wreck Michael's undoubtedly expensive car. It's an Audi R8 V10, sleek and elegant in silver with black details on the side mirrors, the rims and the front grill of the car. The massive vertical sideblade gives the car an aggressive look. The windows are tinted a transparent black, and the interior of the car is muscular with leather seats and a 'virtual cockpit'.

But once he's at the wheel, feeling the tremendous power of the car, he was blown away. Despite his few first stumbles; car stalling, and sudden brakes, he managed to get the hang of it and was soon driving like he'd been doing this for years instead of minutes, engine humming softly in the background. 

They're now approaching the winding part of the road, and he slows down, changing gears when he needs to round a corner, attention focused purely in front of him. The night sky is clear, lighted up with stars. The moon is shining brightly. Even without the help of the headlights, Castiel is able to see the road easily. The engine purrs on, and apart from the occasional sound of him changing gears and hitting the clutch, it's relatively quiet and calm in the car. 

It's a relaxing feeling, just to drive without a real destination in mind, the only thing he needs to worry about is switching gears and concentrating on the road that is slowly sloping up. They drive for another 15-20 minutes before reaching the lookout point. He puts the car in neutral and finally turns to look at Michael. The man is staring at him, a small smirk at the corner of his lips. He looks amused. Castiel blushes. He must have behaved like a kid let loose in a candy store. 

"I take it you like driving." 

He nods. "Yes, it would appear so." 

"That's a good thing. We almost always drive to places. Too much hassle and security check to use the airport unless it's absolutely necessary. You'll be spending hours in the car. Lucifer and I used to switch so that we could cover more ground in a day. I don't mind sleeping in the backseat if you enjoyed driving so much," he smiles. 

Castiel nods, eyes twinkling before facing forward again. "Want to go out for some fresh air?" Michael asks. 

"Sure," he answers, reaching for his seat belt. They get out of the car and approach the lone bench. The air is warm but breezy, comfortable. The wind ruffles his hair. This high up, the stench of exhaust and smoke lessen, replaced by the fresh smelling pines and wood. They settle on the seat side by side and stare out at the sight before them.

The view is breathtaking. The city lies in a glitter of lights below them, the highways stretching out in lines of webs and the high rise buildings seeming like they're reaching for the stars. Even at this hour, the city looks to be alive, orange light glowing and throbbing, neon signs flashing and the occasional cars like glowing ants going on their journey. In the distance, they could see the harbor, water reflecting the night sky. It's beautiful.

They sit in silence for a long while, just soaking up the view. The night is serene and quiet. It's been a long time since Castiel feels so peaceful and at ease. He takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes. Michael shifts beside him. Thinking that the man wants to make the trip back, he opens his eyes and glances over. Michael is staring at him intently, blue eyes dark and serious. 

Castiel swallows. "Is something wrong?"

"Can I ask you something personal?"

Castiel nods, curious. "How do you forgive Lucifer for what he did to you?" Michael asks, brow furrowing as he crosses his arms over his chest. Castiel's heart stutters. He hadn't expected that. Looking back at the city, he swallows the lump in his throat. Then, he turns to his side and eyes Michael, trying to gauge where his head is at. The man seems to be genuinely curious. There's no judgment in his expression nor any signs that shows disapproval or scorn. 

Castiel clears his throat. "I'm not sure when I forgave him, just that one day I looked at him and realized, I don't harbor any resentment towards him anymore. Lucifer was lost and confused. Much like I was. He knows the truth now. Why he keeps making the same mistakes is beyond me."

"What do you mean?" Michael asks, frowning.

"That's not mine to tell," he says, giving Michael a sad smile. "You'll have to ask Lucifer yourself." 

Michael's frown deepens. "Aren't you mad at him for- you know," he trails off. 

"Pimping me out?" Castiel finishes for him. He shakes his head, and leans back, legs stretch out straight in front of him and stares up at the pitch black sky dotted with shining stars. He crosses his fingers on his chest. "I let him," he shrugs. "The only person I could blame was myself."

"But still, he would've forced you if you said no-"

"Doesn't matter. I didn't."

They are quiet for awhile longer, each stewing in their own thoughts before Michael stands. Castiel glances at him, not moving from his position. "Come on, it's getting late. We should head home."

Castiel nods and stands up. Something glints at his peripheral, just outside his line of vision. Something thin and narrow. Like a needle. His heart stops. That's a dart. Before he can warn Michael, the man shoves him aside. He falls in a heap to the ground, just in time to see Michael slapping his neck. The man's face pale as he pulls out the tiny needle-like dart. His eyes dart around the place rapidly before he stumbles. 

Castiel moves to help, but Michael stops him, motioning for him to stay down. Michael blinks as his eyes droop steadily, and he hunches over, holding onto the bench to support himself. Castiel's heart thuds in his chest. A dart. Based on the size and speedt of the projectile, it most probably comes from a dart gun. Typically, darts like these aren't dangerous unless it's smeared with poison. Weapons like this are mostly used to incapacitate rather than kill.

Michael's word plays in his head, reading like a textbook. He hopes the last part is true, and that Michael isn't dying from poison. The man is starting to lose consciousness, his legs falling out from beneath him. He lands on the ground beside Castiel, eyes rolling to the back of his head. Scrambling to his side, Castiel slaps his face, trying to keep him awake. 

"Run," he whispers. "The car." Michael lifts a weak hand and points at the car just a few feet away. 

"I'm not leaving you," he hisses, shocked that Michael would even suggest such a thing. 

"Dooon't have a choice," Michael starts to slur, sweat beading at his forehead.

"No!" 

Castiel chances a look over the bench and attempts to drag Michael's dead weight around it. The man is all lean muscles and weighs a ton. Plus, the fact that he can't stand up straight make it harder to pull Michael along. He stilled when he thought he heard something. A rustle. Could be an animal. Or the wind. He quickens his pace, huffing and puffing when he hears a definitive sound of a tree branch breaking from somewhere behind the car.

Shit. They're totally exposed now, having shuffled from the bench awhile ago. What should he do? Should he run? Or should he confront whoever it is that attacked them? He stares at Michael's unconscious body. He can't run. He can’t leave Michael. He has to stay and fight. Nothing like the present to test if Michael's vigorous training pays off. 

He presses himself all the way to the ground and peeks under the car. His heart feels like it's about to burst when he sees a pair of boots slowly approaching the front of the car. Thinking fast, he moves into a crouch and with his back against the passenger side door. His hearing narrows down the movement on the other side. A soft rustling. Anytime now.

He jumps out from his position and with a swift move, hit the dart gun out of the assailant hands sending it flying into the bushes. His element of surprise only lasts so long though because then the assailant lashes out, aiming for his sides. He successfully avoids the blow but did not see the punch coming. A fist landed hard on his right cheek, and he smashes right onto the car hood. 

The back of his neck tingles feeling exposed when he hears the whooshing sound of an oncoming assault. He flips onto his back and blocks the attack but whoever it is pushed closer, placing themselves between his legs, trapping him. He tries to block the continuous stream of punches and hits but with his limited movement and awkward position, his assailant manages to get him pinned down onto the hood of the car, hands crossed over his chest.

"My, my. Aren't you a feisty one?" A woman about mid twenties with dark brown almost black hair and heart-shaped face stares down at him, lips curling up sinisterly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ATTENTION: Instead of Abaddon, I've replaced her character with Meg and changed her appearance in the first fic to Chastity. Reason being, I love her character too much to let her be a cameo. Don't be mad at me! x.x

Dean is sleeping. At least, he was. Someone is bumbling about outside. Squinting one eye open, he peers blearily across the room. The window above his head is open, letting a soft breeze inside, curtain rustling a little in the wind. The moonlight streams in, bright like a headlamp, making it easy for him to the room in the dark. It still looks sparse; a small dresser in a corner and a desk across his bed but Dean's confident with time, he'll make it his own. He already had his family pictures up and a tool belt above the dresser. He's getting there. 

There's light shining in from underneath the door. Someone is awake. Dean rubs his eyes blearily, pushing himself up. His sheets are tangled around his legs, half on the floor, abandoned sometime in the middle of the night. He kicks at it and stumbles to his feet. He shuffles over to the door and opens it, blinking rapidly at the sudden brightness assaulting his eyes. The commotion seems to be coming from Bobby's room. His door is open, and he can hear the old man grumbling under his breath.

"Bobby?" he calls, pitching his voice low so as not to wake Sam up. 

The noises stop. Then, he hears footsteps approaching the hallway. Bobby peeks his head out. He's dressed, holstering his gun and badge, pulling up his pants. In the harsh light, Bobby looks older than his 50 years of age. His light brown hair is starting to gray around the edge, and his scruff doesn't make him look any younger. His face is lined from years of witnessing the crazy shit people do to each other. The usual spark in his blue eyes dim. The same haunted look every time he got call for duty. 

Dean's been here long enough to know that it's not because Bobby hates his job, in fact, he loves it. It's more a steely resignation of what he'll find when he answers the call. Sioux Falls is a small town and as a homicide detective, he's bound to stumble upon the body of someone he knows or a friend. Hence, the pinched expression on his face as he bumbles down the hallway. 

"Go back to bed, boy," he gruffs. Bobby reminds him of his dad sometimes. 

"Something happened?"

"Someone hit a deer."

Dean arches an eyebrow, incredulous. "Does that falls under your jurisdiction?"

"It's not until they located the animal halfway in the forest and spotted a car wreck," Bobby explains.

"But, how is that homicide?"

"The car is empty, but they found blood. Lots of it. They suspect foul play so here I am at bite-me-in-the-ass o'clock. Without caffeine."

Wow, someone is grumpy. Remind him not to piss Bobby off before he has had his coffee. "O-kay. What time is it anyway?"

"Two plus."

Dean yawns at the exact moment Bobby answered. "Sorry," he apologizes sheepishly. "That must suck. To be on call 24 hours a day." 

He takes in Bobby's tired eyes and stiff shoulders. "Hey, if it makes you feel better, I could fix you some breakfast for when you come back. I used to do it for my dad. He always said it makes him feel more energetic, knowing there are food and hot coffee waiting for him when he comes home."

Bobby looks surprised, both eyebrows creeping up his forehead. Suddenly, Dean feels very self-conscious, heat rushing to his cheeks. He doesn't know where that came from. Must be the nostalgia talking. He shoots out a quiet, "Shut up." The man just scoffs. "Do you want it or not?" he mutters.

"Idjits," Bobby mutters shaking his head. "Just go back to bed. It might take awhile."

Dean shrugs. "I got to get up early anyway. If you're back early, fine but if you're not, I could set the coffee machine up for you before I go out."

Bobby shrugs, back stiff like a rod. Dean tries to hold in the smirk he can feel forming. The man always feels uncomfortable receiving affection, even one as simple and indirect as this. After losing his wife, Karen, to a killer he was hunting- not unlike the tragic end of David Fincher's movie 'Se7en', approximately three years ago, he'd been a single man, living alone in a house he used to call home. Dean understands how that can be confronting. The spaces that used to be filled with someone's presence suddenly becomes empty, hollow. When his mom died, he felt her absence like a physical thing. 

Bobby went on a two months sabbatical. He became withdrawn, to the point that he would not venture out the house or speak to anyone for weeks. Just sat at home and stared at the four walls. Drinking. All these he heard from Bobby's current partner, Rufus, who after a few drinks was very open to heart to heart conversation. 

At first, Dean felt uneasy about it, not wanting to pry into Bobby's business. He wouldn't want someone to talk about his problems behind his back too. But Rufus was drunk, and there was no stopping the verbal vomit, so he listened. Regardless of what he told Dean, he can see from the way Rufus talked about Bobby that it's obvious the man has nothing but the utmost respect and admiration for his partner. 

The first time he met Rufus, he was taken aback by the man's fierce appearance; thick black brows, short army-like haircut, and aggressive behavior to boot. And he _is_ like that, all rough edges but Dean can see the camaraderie the two men have- he'll have to be blind not to, and he's glad Bobby managed to land himself such a good partner after his dad left. 

It was thanks to Rufus that Bobby was able to get back to his feet and started working again. The man never gave up trying to rouse Bobby out of the house. Even back when they were practically strangers, he would get all up in his face, banging on his door and hollering for him to get his old butt moving until one day, Bobby arrived at the station, badge and gun on, still grumpy as ever but coping. Because of that, Dean has nothing but high regards for the man, and if Rufus ever needed a favor, he will be there. So will Bobby.

"Do whatever you want," Bobby grouches as he heads down the stair.

"Be careful, you old grump!" he calls after him, mocking him goodnaturedly. Bobby rolls his eyes and waves before disappearing from view. Dean shuffles back to his room. He could probably get another good 3-4 hour of sleep before he needs to be up. As he walks passed Sam's room, he stops. Pressing his ear against the door, he listens. It's quiet. Good. That mean Sam had a good night sleep. No nightmare. When he reaches his room, he closes the door and stumbles back into bed.

Sam still have nightmares about what happened. Not the real event itself, more like a manifestation of his imagination or memories. When asked, he couldn't tell what he dreamt. It's more like the feeling it gave him that lingered after he woke up. Mostly, he felt trapped. It was often dark and there were monsters laughing and then there was Castiel. 

There's always Castiel. His screams. Sometimes, he's crying. It made Dean scared listening to Sam as he described Castiel covered in blood or just standing there, eyes welling with tears and not saying anything. Always quiet and still even as Sam called out for him. He just stood there and stared. Always just that tiny bit out of reach.

Sam misses him as much as Dean does. Some morning, he will climb into his bed and ask about Castiel to which he never has any answers. The first few months, Dean was obsessed with the hunt, glued to the tv every time the newscaster would report updates on the search. Bobby tried to help, using his police connection to get info, but the trail's cold. There were no sighting of both Castiel or Lucifer anywhere. The police had given up actively searching, relying on electronic databases instead; airport security, credit cards, ATMs, fingerprints, DNAs, anything that can beep, to trace them. 

Dean shuffles onto his side, slipping a hand underneath his pillow and pulling out a photo. It's the one where Castiel pecked him on the cheek. It doesn't show in the picture, but they're both half naked when he took this. They'd just had the most amazing sex ever. Castiel was a hurricane in bed, all power, and passion but like the force of nature, in the eye of the storm, it was still; quiet and intimate. He took Dean apart piece by piece, edged him to the precipice before pulling back, leaving him begging for release. Castiel knew just how to push his buttons, played him like a fiddle, and he had never wanted more. Dean groans as he slips the picture back under the pillow and burrows his head into the soft material. It makes him horny just thinking about it.

Castiel always fucked him hard and deep, holding him tight in his arms, and the way he stared down at him, God- It's like Dean is his whole universe. And that was it, wasn't it? It was those damn eyes. The weight of those intense blue gaze on him. The man looked at him like he's there. Like he mattered. Like he's important. It feels nice to be needed like that. He gulps. Turning onto his back, he stares up at the wall across from him, at the shadowed cross of the window panes. 

Ever since Bobby came into the picture, Sam had depended on him less and less. Hell, Dean's lighter than he'd been in ages. And that should be a good thing. But a part of him is afraid. Afraid that he's disappearing. What if one day he becomes obsolete? No longer needed and just in the way? What is he then? He'll be nothing. He has no one. Given the choice, he had always chosen family. It's just who he is. His family's his everything. Dad. Sam. All his life’s effort, he had put into trying to keep his family together. Keep them afloat. He'd tried, he really did. He'd go to hell and back for them. They’re all he have. If they abandon him, he’ll be nothing. 

He shakes his head. Dad hadn't abandoned him. He must have his reasons for staying away. Even after the trials made the news. He must have a reason for not coming, for not being there when Dean had to recount the horrible things that he was forced to do at the home. There has to be. Dad can't be so cruel. Yes, he might be callous in his words, careless with them but he was never cruel. He had his reasons. Dean has to believe that. 

He stares at the small picture on the wall. Even in the dark, he knows what he's looking at. Had stared at the picture so many time, he remembered every tiny detail about it. 

He'd finally found something that belonged to him. Only him. Someone who loved him for him. Someone who cared. Someone who took care of him. Who put his needs and feelings before their own. And what did he do in return? Dean turned around and stabbed him in the back. He left Castiel when he needed him the most.

He can still see the look on Castiel's face the last time he saw him. So vivid like it happened just yesterday. The numb look of a man who had lost everything and not knowing what to do. He was so scared, and he just wanted someone, anyone, to tell him it's going to be okay. That he will be okay. Dean did none of those things.

When Lucifer gave him a choice, Castiel had looked at her. There was a quiet plea in his eyes. The unspoken words. His silent but barely concealed hope that Dean would stop him. Force him to stay. Say he'll be there for him. Like he promised. Through thick and thin. _I love you._

But he had let Castiel walked away. He let him go. He abandoned him. And he can never forget the dull blue of his eyes as the light was wiped out from them. The dead eyes of someone who had given up. But even then, at the very end of the road, Castiel still had it in him to care. That son of a bitch still fucking cares.

_“You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. But I'm asking you to forget about me. Forget that I’ve ever existed. Forget about this chapter in your life. Your dad is coming for you. You have a chance to live a full, normal life with your family. You deserve that.”_

\---

"What do you want?" 

Plum colored lips curl into a smirk. Castiel struggles against her grip on his wrists, but it's fruitless. He might be stronger, but the position in which he's in makes it hard for him to gather enough strength to push up. The brunette knows it, using her weight to hold him down. The hood of the car had started to cool, and the metal is starting to feel uncomfortable through his thin t-shirt. He glares up at his attacker. 

"Aren't you adorable?" she coos instead, raking her eyes over his face and down his neck before dragging up again. She moves herself closer between his thigh, using her hold of him to slide him further down so that she could grind against him. He can feel her warmth between his legs; her movements deliberate and sexual.

His breathing starts to come in harsh puffs. He can feel the oncoming panic attack, the cold sweat and heart rate spike. He tries to calm himself down, taking deep even breaths without appearing too obvious about it. Using the car as leverage, he tries to buck forward, but she only laughs at his attempts. She has a husky voice, one that sounds like she smokes or drinks too much; rough and raspy and she has a drawl-like way of talking. The leather from her summer jacket rubs against his skin and the zippers along the sleeves press into his flesh. 

"So," she exclaims suddenly, voice loud in the relative quiet. "Looks like we got ourselves a little problem." She stares down at their interlocking hands with a meaningful arch of an eyebrow. "I can't use my hands. Which is too bad. Because the things I want to do to you," she trails off seductively. "Look at you, all pinned down just ripe for the taking. Makes a girl feel all dewy inside."

Castiel narrows his eyes. She sighs, rolling her eyes. "You're no fun, you know that, right?" When he doesn't answer, she pouts huffily. "Fine. I'll get straight to the point. There's something I need to know. And if you give me that information, there's no reason we can't go our separate ways afterward. Right, Clarence?" she asks.

"My name is not Clarence," he growls out. 

"My, my. Is that what you're hiding underneath this Catholic school boy's look? Keep talking, Clarence. I want to hear more of that sexy voice of yours," she teases. Castiel continues to glare up at her, face impassive and unmoving. After awhile, her face loses the amused look and turns bored. 

"So what? Are we just going to stand here all night? I don't mind. There's no place I rather be than stuck between the thighs of a gorgeous young thing like you." She leans down and whispers in his ear, soft warm puffs against his skin. "But your friend on the other hand. He might not last the next few hours."

Castiel's heart stop. "What do you mean?" he demands. "What did you do to him?"

"Let's just say, I'm toxic," she answers as she moves down his ear to his neck, resting her chin on his arm. "Tick tock."

Castiel's heart starts to beat rapidly, the sound loud in his ears. He glances to his side at Michael, taking in his unmoving form and feels his pulse throbs. He needs to do something. Fast. But what? Distract her. "Fine. What do you need to know?"

"Where's Lucifer?" she asks, voice serious as she pushes herself up, almond shaped eyes highlighted by arched eyebrows. Castiel frowns up at her, resigned to the fact that whenever something bad happens, it's always Lucifer. 

"Why?"

"The why doesn't concerns you, sweetheart. You know where he is. Tell me," she enunciates the last words, pressing his wrists further down and apart, straining the tendon on his shoulders. He scowls. Something brushes against his crotch, pressing hard. 

"What are you doing?" he exclaims, trying to shifts away from the uncomfortable pressure but there's nowhere for him to go. He's bent over at the waist with his back against the hood, completely trapped.

"Just checking to see if your manly man voice is the only thing you're hiding underneath that oh-so-innocent package," she smirks, ignoring his squirms as she rubs their groins together. 

"Stop!"

"I will if you tell me what I want to know," she drawls not stopping in her quest to provoke a response out of him. "Most guys I know loved it when I do this." 

She grinds her hips up again against his penis, the thin material of his threadbare jeans doing nothing to prevent him from feeling the full effect of her ministration. He gasps as he feels his flaccid penis starts to react to the stimulation. Breathing hard, he clenches his hands into fists. Using his newly trained strength, he wraps his thighs around her waist and twists. It worked. The brunette loses her footing and crashes to the side of the hood. 

Castiel is quick to untangle himself and reaches for his Beretta. Stupid, he should have gone for it the first chance he gets. A fist comes flying into his line of vision, and he minutely dodges it, making a full turn and swings his gun in the direction of the brunette. He's too slow to react however when she slaps his hand to the side, grabs his arm and pulls him in, punching him in the gut as she does so. His legs buckle as his breath get knocked out of him. With her grip still on his arm, she goes for the gun. They grapple with it, each trying to get the muzzle facing the opposite direction. 

He aims a kick at her shin, huffing in satisfaction when he feels the hard impact. She curses in frustration as her leg buckles, landing on the ground on one knee. Castiel uses the opportunity to yank his arm away, but she's quick. Using her legs, she side sweeps him causing him to lose his balance. He lands with a thud, gun clattering away and skin tearing where it rubs against the rough gravel. 

Before he can orient himself, the brunette crawls up his body, small and limber body fast and cat-like in its movement. With her knees, she grinds them down on his elbows effectively holding him in a chokehold with her thighs around his neck, her crotch almost in his face. 

"Where is Lucifer?" she demands, panting hard. 

"He's in Pittsburg," he spits out. It's part true. Lucifer _was_ in Pittsburg. He's on the way back now. 

"Why is he there?" she asks, cruel eyes narrowing into slits as she flexes her thighs.

He chokes, the movement causing his throat to constrict, blocking his airway. "To kill whoever it was who put the hit out on him," he croaks out. 

"Finnick?"

Castiel's eyes widen. "How do you know that?" 

She smiles. "We have ears, Clarence. Among many other useful things," she answers. He frowns at the name she keeps calling him. She stares at him thoughtfully. "Are you lying to me, Clarence? You do know that lying is a sin," she says, tapping his lips. Without warning, she tightens her chokehold on his neck. He coughs, eyes watering as his air supply is cut off. She relaxes her muscles, and he splutters, gasping for air. 

"If you know about Finnick, you know I'm not lying," he gasps out. 

"True," she admits. "But why are you telling me? Word on the streets says you're his- what do you call it? Toy? Conquest? Plaything? Honestly, we were all surprised when we heard the news. Lucifer doesn't seem the type."

Castiel bristles at her bluntly put insult. "I'm no one's 'toy'. Or 'plaything' or whatever it is you called me. We're two consenting adults who have sex. In the privacy of our own home. It's private," he growls. "'Words on the streets' has no business poking it's nose into our affair."

"Hmm, keep talking dirty to me," she purrs permanent sly smile on her lips. 

Castiel huffs and with whatever leeway he has, turns his head away. "Do you top or bottom?" The brunette's voice sounds too loud and too inappropriate in the open space. He feels his cheeks heats up and refuses to entertain her question, staring fixedly at the trees in the distance. "Alright. Don't answer me then. Let me take a guess."

"I'm not playing this game with you," he growls, tone low and dangerous.

"Now, that makes me think you're a top, Clarence. But you're too pretty not to be a bottom. It would be such a waste. So my guess is-" Her heart-shaped face split into a broad smile. She slips a hand into his hair, running it through her fingers before gripping a huge chunk of it and yanks. He hisses as his head is jerked upward. "You're a perky little bottom boy. Am I right?"

He keeps silent, glaring dagger at the smiling brunette. With the starry sky and moonlight shining behind her, she looks eerie in the soft shadow like a puppeteer who had found its puppet. Something glints at her neck. A black necklace with a jade and something hanging underneath it. A stone-like crystal with etch marks on it. It's too dark to see what it says. She saw him looking and raises a hand to touch the object. "You don't recognize this do you?"

He frowns, shaking his head, not like he could move it more than a half inch left and right. "Every killer has their identifying attributes. I have many," she smiles. "This is just one of them. _If_ you get out of this alive, do look it up. I'm sure you'll find quite an interesting read." 

She tilts her head to the side, considering before placing a finger on his forehead and slowly traces it down the tip of his nose. Her tongue peeks out, wetting her lips as she goes, unable to keep that sly smile off her face. "I would love to have a chance to play with you. So I'm thinking-" she trails off, staring down at him with hooded eyes. Castiel feels cold all a sudden. She reminds him of Chastity, the crazy dominatrix. "I won't kill you. Not yet. Would you like that?" 

Again, he doesn't humor her with an answer. Instead, he shifts his gaze. His eyes land on his Beretta just a few feet away. His body stiffens on instinct, and he wants to strangle himself when the brunette catches on. She glances at the gun and turns back to face him, unimpressed. "Really?" Sighing dramatically, she continues, "I can see that we both got off on the wrong foot here, so I call do over." She pulls out a vial from the inside of her jacket. The liquid looks clear and from the moonlight shining through it, appears to be light blue in color.

Castiel starts to panic, eyes wild as he stares at the glass in her hand. He starts to squirm. Is she going to poison him? Didn't she said she wasn't going to kill him? Did she retract her statement? Why did he take a killer for her words? How naive is he? He starts to struggle, inching a hand desperately towards the gun. "Shhh, it's okay. It's not poison."

"Then, what is it?" he asks, trying to stall time and distract her attention.

"It's Rohypnol. A specially engineered kind. One that takes effect almost immediately."

A date rape drug. Why would she use it on him? Unless- The panic descends in full force. In a last ditch attempt to escape, he lunges for the gun. His fingers brush against the butt, slipping against the cool metal before he grasps it in his hand. Before he's able to slam his arms upwards, the brunette grabs his cheeks and forces his mouth open, pouring the clear blue liquid down his throat. He splutters, trying to spit the drug out. The brunette pushes up onto her knees, her full weight grinding down on his arms as she presses both palms over his mouth and nose, forcing him to swallow.

He trashes, unable to stop the saliva from producing and trickling down his throat along with the paralytic drug. His vision starts to blur as tears cloud his eyes. No, not again. He can't deal with this again. The sudden helplessness he feels is as paralytic as the drugs currently working in his system. He tries to shake his head, pleading, tears leaking down the side of his eyes. "Shhh, don't cry," she hushes. 

But he can't help it. He chokes as sobs wrack his body. His body starts to feel numb, and the hand clutching the gun falls to the ground, his fingers slowly unclenches. No, please. The tears flow over even as his facial expression evens out. The brunette lifts her hands slowly, watching as his last struggles die out. He stares blearily up at her, unable to move or talk. This can't be happening. Not after everything. 

The brunette lets herself fall back onto his chest and moves lower to straddles his hips, leaning down until their face are inches apart. Her breaths are hot and humid as they puff down on him. She slips a hand through his hair again, bringing his face up. Closer. He feels the last of his resolve breaks and with it his strength and will. He finds himself retreating to the place he hasn't been to in months. The safe space he created. The blank nothingness. 

He stares up at her blankly, nonreactive. "Don't look so dead, Clarence. I'm not interested in having sex with a body nor with someone who doesn't want it. I'm no rapist." A sliver of feeling returns. His eyes waver. "It's just business. I need info. You're the one who has it. Doesn't mean we can't get along." He blinks, trying to clear his vision. "Sorry about this," she says gesturing to his incapacitated form. "But a girl got to do what a she got to do to survive. Can't risk you stabbing me in the back now, can we?"

She hums, placing a hand on the side of his face as she leans closer, dark eyes staring down at him as if he's an open book and she's trying to read every word in it. He's not sure if it's the drug taking a hold of him or if it's real, but he thought he sees a flicker of sadness in her dark eyes. Or pity. "I can see the crack in your chassis, Clarence. You kept up with these pretenses, these beliefs that learning how to fight makes your strong, become the predator so you don't become the hunted. You can pretend all you want, but we all know deep inside, you're still hurting. And that hurt, it will never go away. It's part of who you are, who you'd become." 

Her dark eyes waver, grow hazy as an unreadable expression blankets her features. It lasted only a second before a sly smile slips back into place. "My unicorn," she whispers, closing the few inches between them and presses her lips on his numb chapped ones. Soft. Chaste. 

"Until next time, Clarence. The drug will wear off in two hours. In the meantime, think of me," she smirks. With that, she climbs off him and saunters off into the woods, boots leaving a soft clomping noise behind. A minute later, he hears a motor revs up, the sound loud and deafening in the darkness before it drifts away leaving the echo of its engine behind.

Castiel lies on the hard, unforgiving asphalt, staring up at the night sky as he tries to process what happened. His mind is reeling. Fear still clings to him like a wet cloth over his face, suffocating him. She's gone. He's okay. He's safe. She's not going to- 

He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, a shaky sound. His body maybe paralyze, but he's trembling inside. His heart is still thudding hard in his chest, which is stupid because sending the drug into overdrive. He has to calm down. He can't let his fear drown him, can't let it take over. He has to fight it. Two hours. Two hours to pull himself together. He lets out a self-depreciative breath. Right. Even a stranger could tell he's broken. And he is. He knows he is. 

These past months, he thought he was getting better. That maybe his blackouts were just a fluke. Apart from the occasional nightmares, he managed to deal. He thought he confronted it, thought he put it behind him. But all he did was shoved it to the back of the closet and put a lock on it. When triggered, everything falls apart. He became practically useless. Catatonic. The prospect of rape alone paralyzes him. 

A tear leaks down the side of his eye. He can never forget the things he did during his time as Lucifer's party favor. The rock bottom gut feeling he gets when he was forced down to his knees and had random cocks shoved down his throat. How disgusting and dirty it felt to be used, called vile things as they treated him like garbage. To be chucked aside after. Worthless. Nor can he forget the times he was strapped to the bench, degraded down to nothing but a set of holes. 

_"You're a whore, bitch. Why the fuck are you even struggling?"_

_"How can you rape a whore?"_

Gordon Walker's voice rings loud and clear as he tore into him, uncaring for the crying boy writhing underneath him. The roar of laughter that accompanied the assault still torment his nightmares as they took turns raping him; rough hands leaving bruises and broken bones behind as they forced him to his knees and shoved their cocks down his throat or presses him to the ground as they rip him apart. The smell of blood, semen and sex filled his nostril. He feels nauseated. 

Another tear escapes his eye. He was just a thing for them to play with. An amusement. Their entertainment for the day. Degraded down to nothing but a set of holes. They called him vile things, said nasty things to his face, spat at him. The way they made him feel- like he was nothing, disgusting and dirty, to be thrown around or wipe the floor with. Just trash. After they've had their fun, they just left him there. Dying in a pool of his own blood. Like a used tissue, not even worth a second glance. Isn’t he a living breathing human being just like them?

Maybe he isn't. Maybe there is something irrevocably wrong with him that makes him so disposable. Not even a used object. A defective one. 

If he can laugh, he will. Because he finally understands now; see it so clearly. There are two types of people. One who’s good for a relationship; boyfriend, partner, husband. And then there's the other type. The flings, the one night stands, and hookups. He belongs in that category. Nobody would want something as undesirable as him for real. He's only good for a fuck. That's all anyone wanted from him. He's just a pastime. Good only for a few hours. Nothing more. 

There was a time, not long ago when Castiel had let believed otherwise. Believed the words that were said to him. Promises that were made. He let himself believed that he was something more. That maybe someone actually wanted to spend more than a few hours with him. Maybe even plan a future. How naive. Because when the time comes where it counts, Castiel always loses. He was never good enough. Never the first choice. Never the priority. He's just there.

As he lies there, unable to move and with nothing to distract him from his thoughts, he thinks. Why is he fighting so hard to live? Why is he still struggling? When living is so hard? What’s the purpose of living then when every new day is reliving old nightmares and dreading a bleak future? What was his reason to live? He thought he had one, but maybe not. Perhaps he should have let brunette finished him off. He should have-

He should have... What should he have again? His mind is muddy, unfocused. Now that he realizes it, the sky is blurry too. Did the clouds blow over? He squints. His mouth feels dry. His head starts to spin making him feel dizzy. His stomach lurches. He feels nauseated. Stop spinning. He closes his eyes. The dizziness doesn't go away. Instead, it feels like it's spinning in his head, the blackness dancing behind his eyelids. Stop. 

His thoughts become a jumbled mess, and he's unable to form any coherent sentences. He begins to lose consciousness. It feels like he’s falling, tipping over an invisible ledge and then it’s a long fall down. Neverending. He’s just falling. And falling. 

\---

The apartment is dark. Lucifer turns on the soft overhead light as he steps out of the elevator. He double checks to affirm that the security alarm engaged. Taking off his jacket, he hangs it on the coat rack. He sneaks a glance inside. No sign of movements. No surprise. It's almost half past three in the goddamn morning. Any sane person would be deep in REM sleep by now.

He moves quietly in any case. Castiel had been a light sleeper of late. Well, ever since he arrived. Any sudden noise would wake him, and he'll have a tough time getting back to sleep again. Which wasn't doing him any favor with Michael, who needed him alert and at his best during their training.

He's just glad Naomi decided to set Castiel on Michael as a punishment for his indiscretion, rather than him. He has no patience whatsoever to be a tutor or mentor. Watching Michael with Castiel, though, he doesn't think it's much of a punishment. The man enjoyed the activities. A know-it-all given a chance to share his knowledge. Pure heaven.

He doesn't bother with the lights in the living room instead, moves into the kitchen. He turns on the overhead lights above the kitchen island. Soft orange glow illuminates the table leaving the rest in a gentle warm hue. Turning the water boiler on, he makes himself a cup of tea. He sighs, sipping the hot strong smelling liquid as he leans against the kitchen counter. He's debating if he should first take a shower or to hell with it and crash into bed. 

Looking down at himself, he thinks he's presentable enough discounting the fact that there's a few drop of blood splatter at the side of his shirt. Minuscule. He feels icky, though. He'd been sweating a lot today, and he doesn't doubt there's a trail of salt running down his back. Right. That settles it then. He's taking a long overdue shower.

Rinsing his cup under the sink, he opens the dishwasher and places his mug inside. He spots the pans and bowls arranged inside and groans. They had stew today. Oh god, he hopes Michael had left some of it in the fridge for him. He could warm a bowl up while he takes a shower. He's starving. The last time he ate was lunch! 

He hurries over to the fridge and opens it, smiling gleefully at the glass storage container. Michael made goulash! His mouth waters at the sight as he reverently takes the container out and walks towards the oven, setting up the temperature and sliding the glass container in. He watches at the it spins around in slow motion, and can't wait until he gets to taste that melting meat in his mouth and the hearty gravy. He sighs at the dish wistfully. 

He starts to walk backward towards the hallway that leads to the bedrooms, unable to stop making heart eyes at the glowing rotating goodness. When he reaches the entrance archway, he turns around and continues to his room. There are three rooms in this hallway; two on the right and one on the left. The first room on the right is his followed by Castiel and the room on the left is Michael's. Castiel's room used to be a spare bedroom. Michael said it’s for guests but in the two years he'd lived here, said 'guests' never arrived.

He enters his room and switches on the master light. The ceiling lights up along the edge of the wall where a wooden panel is built in, and the pale light shines upwards casting the room in a soft glow, not too bright but not too dark that he can't read. Just good enough to give ambiance. He often wonders who designed the apartment. Despite its tastefulness, it's not fancy. Michael used salvage wood for everything; the wall paneling, the furniture. If he doesn't have to take a long flight up the building, he could have been living in a well-furnished cabin in the woods. 

Every bedroom comes with its own bathroom and shower. Something he is glad for because he doesn't need to see Michael wet and glistening or half naked if he doesn't have to. Not when he isn't allowed to touch those glorious smooth skin, or pull the frustrating towel off his hips. He strips and throws his clothes into the laundry basket under the sink. He stares at himself in the mirror. Michael should be thankful that Lucifer even wants that with him. He is a catch. He's good looking, classically handsome with thick blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes and a charming smile. 

He flexes his shoulders, watches as the lean muscles ripple along his upper arms. Not to blow his own horn, but he has a fine body. Fit for sex naturally. Or else, why would Castiel keep coming back for more? He never went to the teenager. Now that he understood what those conflicting emotions were, it feels too much like cheating on- 

He stops himself. They're not together. They were never together. Still ,it feels wrong to go to Castiel. But if the boy were to come on to him, who is he to deny? Or what right does he have to refuse him after what he did? And if he pretends those blue eyes and dark hair belong to someone else in the dark of the night then it's no one's business but his own.

He should feel guilty about it. But he also knows that Castiel is using him as a coping mechanism. And if they're both using one another to seek what little comfort they could get, then what harm does it do? It's mutually beneficial. In a mutually destructive way. 

He sighs, eyeing the tattoo emblazoned on his chest right above his heart. He never thought he’s the type of person to get a permanent mark on his body to remind him of someone. A blade engulfed in cerulean flames, points straight upwards, perfectly symmetrical. The hilt is positioned right over the bullet wound he’d suffered at the hand of Michael. The tattoo artist made it so that the wound blend into the hilt, like a bejeweled crest. 

Staring at the flaming sword, he thinks it's symbolic. His name is Lucifer. His parent must have quite the sense of humor naming him, whoever they are. And he identifies with the angel. He served his beloved country with everything he's got only to be cast out, forgotten and left to rot in hell by those he called his brother-in-arms. He sympathizes with the angel. And then there's Michael, aptly named after the Archangel Michael, who was sent to kill him. It seems fitting to preserve the memory with the weapon the Archangel used to strike down the devil. 

Like the archangel, Michael is a warrior, a fighter. His precision and ferocity invoke fear to those who were unlucky enough to encounter him. Though working for people like Naomi, Michael is far from an angel, but Lucifer was always amazed by the man's ethics and values. Despite his lifestyle, he holds on the little things that let him balance between a man with a job and a monster. He never tortures. He never maims. He kills. And once he includes someone into his circle of trust, he'll do anything for them. Even die. Something he'd seen with his own two eyes. 

He washes his hands and opens the chest-high wooden door to the shower. He doesn't feel like a bath right now though it's tempting. The Japanese oval shaped bathtub on top of the raised wooden slates beckons him, telling him to soak in the warm earthy smelling water that he knows will soothe his sore muscles. He ignores it, thinking of the goulash heating in the oven and enters the shower area. The wooden platform feels warm beneath his feet, and he's quick to turn on the shower. 

The whole apartment is very minimalist in design, but damn did Michael paid attention to the important details that make life feels so insanely good and comfortable. If they have to go around killing people, getting shot at and spit blood every once in awhile, they might as well suffer in the little luxuries such as this heavenly rainfall shower that consumerism provides. The heavy stream of water pours down on him, soaking him in seconds. He whistles as he scrubs himself down, thinking of the hot stew waiting for him when he's done. 

\---

Did he drink?

Castiel's head is splitting, and he groans, scrunching up his face in an attempt to ward off the pain. He feels hangover. The worst one yet. That is saying something considering the number of times he was forced to entertain with consumption of copious amount of alcohol. He holds his head with both hands, groaning as he turns onto his side. He wants to vomit but his inside feels stuck like everything is jammed and all he can produce is the saliva trickling out the corner of his mouth.

He squeezes his eyes shut, folding himself in half, hands covering his face. He tries to breathe calmly and keeps the outside stimulation to a bare minimum. When it feels like he could think again without his head splitting in half, he lowers his arms and squints in the gloom. He sees a dark shape a few feet away from him. Frowning, he pushes himself up. Slow and steady. He frowns, willing himself think. What happened? Where is this place? He looks around, spotting a car a few feet away. His mind races. Yes. They went for a car ride. _They?_ Oh, shit. He snaps his head back to the figure on the ground. Michael.

He drags himself on unsteady feet towards the man and crouches by his head, lifting it up to lay it on his thighs. "Michael?" he calls, slapping the man's face gently. His voice is rough and throaty. "Michael!" he calls more urgently as he searches for a pulse. He's alive, pulse beating loud and clear against his fingers but dangerously slow. The man is not reacting to his efforts to wake him and the longer the minutes tick by, the more panicked he feels. 

Unable to get any response, he lifts his head up searching the place in pure desperation, hoping the landscape will shock his brain into remembering. The car gleams under the gentle glow of the moonlight. Yes. Michael was giving him a driving lesson. He had driven all the way up here. He glances at the bench. They sat there. And then- 

His body stiffens. They were attacked. He glances down at Michael again, searching his neck. Sure enough, he sees the pinprick hole the needle had left. Michael was poisoned. He strains his brain. There was a woman. Dark hair. Sexual. Husky voice. And then he remembers. They fought. She had him trapped. She told him that Michael wouldn't last the night!

He stares down at Michael. He's pale. Deathly pale under the white glow of the moonlight. He doesn’t know what to do. Michael can’t die. Mind racing, he remembers. Lucifer is coming back tonight. He will know what to do. Castiel needs to get Michael to the apartment.

Praying that Lucifer is home, he drags the unconscious man towards the car, slams the passenger door shut and runs to the driver side. His hands are shaking as he starts the car and pulls out of the spot. His heart beats rapidly in his chest as he stares down the dark winding road. He can do this. He drove up here. He can drive back down again. Letting go of the clutch and switching gears, he steps on the gas pedal and feels the car lurches forward. It didn't stall. Instead, they move down the road at a good pace. He got it right!

Half laughing, half sobbing in relief, hands still trembling on the steering wheel, he hits the gas, feeling his confidence returning. His hands and feet work on autopilot as he maneuvers his way down, drifting past sharp corners and turns, all the while hearing the tick tick tick of the metaphorical time bomb. Michael is quiet beside him. Too quiet. But Castiel doesn't dare to take his eyes off the road, not at the speed he's going and the emotional state he’s in.

Please, he prays. _Please_ , let him be on time.

\---

Lucifer clears the bowl, dabbing his mouth with a kitchen napkin. The goulash was as delicious as he remembered it. Even better on a hungry stomach. He can still feel the rich aftertaste of it in his mouth. He licks his lips, tongue still sensitive from almost burning it earlier in his rush to take his first piping hot bite. But he has no regrets. 

With a full stomach, he turns to switch off the lights when something catches his eyes. There's a post-it note sticking to the door of the refrigerator. Weird, he didn't notice that before. Probably in his haste for food, he must have overlooked it. He walks towards it, blue eyes trying to make out the words scribbled in Michael's neat handwriting in black sharpie. 

_Took Castiel out for a driving lesson. Probably be back before you're home. But just in case. M_

He squints his eyes, not sure if he'd read it right and hurries to the note, reading it one more time. That's what it says. He cocks his ears. The apartment is quiet apart from the hum of the refrigerator and other electrical equipment. He glances at the clock hanging on the wall opposite. It's almost four in the morning. Whatever lesson they had, they should already be back by now. Maybe Michael just forgot to take the note down. He slips back into the hallway and approaches Castiel's room. He turns the doorknob and peers inside.

The bed is empty. A sense of dread grips his chest in a tight fist. He hurries down the hallway to Michael's room and opens the door. Empty. The sight does something ugly in his chest. This doesn't feel right. He does a quick calculation in his head. Knowing Michael, he would have picked the least busy time to leave the house for a driving lesson. So, about twelve. He knows the spot he would use. It's a 45 minutes drive, times two it's an hour and thirty minutes. Twelve plus one and a half hours is 1:30 am, and let's say the lesson took them 2 hours, 3 hours max, they should be back by 4:30 am. 

Okay, maybe he's panicking over nothing. They could be back at any moment now. But the feeling of unease doesn't go away. He pulls out his phone and starts to call Michael. He waits. And waits. Michael is not picking up. He tries again, but the dial tone just keep ringing. Just as he's about to end the call, he hears it. It's soft, but the sound is unmistakable. It's a ringtone. And it's coming from inside the apartment. The entryway that connects to the elevator to be exact.

Lucifer heaves a sigh of relief. See, they're back. You scared yourself for no reason. He shakes his head trying to calm down his jittery nerves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone feels that Lucifer's character seems different, I need to clarify that the Lucifer you first met was a bitter, slightly hateful one because of what Michael did. But now that he's moved passed it, he's returning more like himself. I used the same advice Pellegrino gave Misha, "Everybody is a toy to him and he wants to have sex with everything." That's a great tip!


	4. Chapter 4

"Michael?" he calls, stepping towards the sound. 

"Lucifer!" Castiel's shouts, voice panicked and agitated. 

He _runs_ , footsteps slamming down the wooden flooring. Something's wrong. He can feel it. Please, just please don't let it be Michael. He should have been clearer on the phone about their perilous predicament. He should have told Michael to stay in. Why hadn't he? His heart slams into his throat when he skids into the entryway and catches sight of Castiel almost bent in half trying to support Michael's weight. Michael is half-conscious, pale and sweating, and through his hooded eyes, Lucifer could see that they're rimmed red. 

"What the hell happened?" he asks, rushing forward to drape Michael's other arm around his shoulder. The man is like a furnace. He's burning up, skin hot to the touch. Lucifer pushes down the alarm he feels at that and wraps an arm around Michael's waist. His shirt is drenched with sweat, but there's no sign of blood. So he's not wounded. But he's definitely not alright. His head lolls listlessly on his shoulders, mouth half open as he mumbles under his breath. Of what, Lucifer couldn't tell, the words jumbled up and nonsensical.

"He's poisoned. He passed out right away but he woke up when we're halfway home, and he kept talking and sometimes he would scream. It's like he's stuck in a nightmare," Castiel answers, voice thin and stressed. Lucifer glances down at the man. He looks like he's going to pass out again. The situation is not looking good.

They stop talking, focused on bringing Michael to his room. They're moving much quicker now, half carrying, half dragging Michael's limp body along. Lucifer shoves the door open with his foot as they move Michael across the room and place him on the bed. The man turns onto his side and curls up into a fetal position. His mumblings are more urgent now, desperate. He's shaking his head, and there's a slight tremor wracking his frame. 

"How did he get poisoned?" he demands as he leans over trying to get Michael to lay on his back. 

"A dart in the neck. We were attacked by a woman. Dark brown almost black hair. Heart-shaped face," Castiel lists. "She wore a necklace with a jade and a stone with something inscribed on it." 

"Meg," he growls, lifting Michael's face up and holds his eyelids open. His pupils are dilated as fuck, confirming his suspicion. He senses movement behind him. "Don't turn on the lights. Leave it off," he instructs. Castiel stops and walks back over to the bed. "What can I do?" he asks. 

Lucifer feels Michael’s forehead. The man is burning up. He’s still muttering, staring at something in front of him. He looks terrified, tears clouding his blown wide eyes. Lucifer had never seen him like this before; it scares the shit out of him. This close he could hear what the man had been repeating nonstop. 

"Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Please, stop. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he mumbles, shaking his head. Tears squeeze out the corner of his eyes as he grimaces in pain. His hair is matted and clings to his forehead. There’s a reddish hue at the top of his cheeks. 

"Meg's killing method are reptiles poisoning. We need the antivenin. But the fact that we don't know what snake the poison comes from it's impossible to know which antivenin to administer," he bites out, running his hands through his hair. "Death usually occurs two hours after poisoned." He snaps his head at Castiel. "How long ago was that?" he asks, terrified of the answer.

Castiel glances at his watch. "About an hour and 45 minutes ago," he says, looking up at Lucifer with wide, scared eyes. "That means-"

"That's right," a female voice says. "He only has 15 minutes to live."

They both turn towards the front of the room. The silhouette of a 5'3 petite female stands in the doorway. She flips the switch by the door, bathing the room in the same soft orange glow. Michael cries in pain, covering his eyes with his hands, and turns away from the source of the light, curling in on himself. No matter how much Lucifer wants to go to him right now, he can't. Instead, he jumps onto the bed and flings himself over to the other side where Michael's walk in closet is and rolls inside, crouching with his back against the wall beside the entrance.

"Fuck!" he hears Meg yells and then, "Don't move!" 

He looks around quickly, knowing that Michael would have store some spare weapons in his bedroom. One side of the wall is filled with suits while the middle one is stuffed full of jeans and t-shirts. His limited amount of shoes lined the two bottom shelves below his jeans. The wall closest to him however only occupy a large dresser. This should be it.

He lunges at it, opening the bottom drawer. Bingo! Inside are a number of semi-automatic pistols and rounds of loaded magazine and cartridges. He snatches up a Colt M1911 and inserts the magazine, pulls the slide, loading a bullet into the chamber and moves back to his original spot, heartbeat thudding in his ears.

Meg is talking, and he just catches the tail end of it before she calls out in a singsong voice, "Lucifer!" He can hear the smile in her tone. "Come out, come out, wherever you are," she sings. 

A loud shot rings through the room, and a shout follows right after. Someone falls to the ground, an ominous thud. Lucifer's heart skyrockets, he can feel himself choking on it. Sweats bead at his forehead. He can't see what the fuck is happening. He glances around the room frantically until he spots the full-length mirror. It has wheels at the bottom. 

He rushes towards the mirror. His ears prick at the telltale sound of someone stealthily sneaking closer. Thank god, the floor is not carpeted. He grips the mirror and waits. When he sees the approaching shadow at the entrance of the closet, he pushes. The mirror rolls out like a freight train; well-balanced, the heavy frame holding its center of gravity constant. As soon as the mirror moves, he follows suit. As expected, the mirror explodes into tiny pieces, and a fraction of a second later, he's followed, flying out and shooting Meg in the chest. 

She topples backward, the impact of the shot knocking her off her feet. Lucifer is quick to step on her armed hand, grinding on the small bones near the pulse point by her wrist. Meg screams, gun dropping out of her slack grip. Kicking the weapon away, Lucifer points his own gun at her head. "Give me the antivenin."

Meg laughs, blood trickling out from her mouth. "Or what? You'll kill me either way."

"You would think so."

Meg frowns. He lifts his foot from her wrist, moves a few inches to the left and presses down hard, right on the bullet wound, pinning her to the floor. Meg gasps in pain, hands coming up to grab his foot, eyes glaring and bloodshot.

"I could keep you alive and slice your skin off until there none left. And then I will peel the muscles from your bone, one tendon after the other. I'll leave enough so that you don't die on me. And then, I'm going to make you into a homemade plant. Do you know what that is? Step one, I'm going to cut your limbs off, so you're nothing but a stump with a head. A head without a tongue of course, because plants don't speak. Then, I'm going to place you in a huge vase. Lastly, and the best part. You get to live out the rest of your life as my little homemade plant."

Meg pales as she glares up at him. "Don't test me," he says.

"Fine! You're fucking crazy," she spits out. "The antivenins are in my jacket. Just hope you hadn't shot it," she snarls. 

He looks down at her body and where his foot is currently on her chest. Without hesitating, he aims for her thigh and releases a shot before lifting his foot. She screams in agony, curling slightly into herself as she clutches her leg. He crouches down, gun still aimed at her head and flips her jacket open. He can see the bulge in one of her inside pockets. Pressing the barrel against her pulse point, he demands. "Take it out. And no funny business."

Meg scowls at him, panting in agony as she rips the zipper open and yanks out a round container. "Open it and show me which one," he orders. Meg does as she's told, hands shaking from the pain as her breathing gets harsher and more painful. She points to one of the syringes inside. "This one," she mutters.

"You better not be lying, or that homemade plant thing is going to be your future."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. I'm not stupid," she snaps, grimacing as she slumps back onto the wooden floor, now smeared with blood. He wonders how hard it would be to scrub bloodstain off wood.

"Thank you," he says before smashing the butt of the gun against Meg's head, rendering her unconscious. He stands up, pulls the syringe out carefully and hurries to the bed. Michael is no longer moving. His heart stops. No. He rushes over, turning Michael gently onto his back. He checks for a pulse, trying to calm his own rapidly freaking out heart. Nothing. He presses harder. Still nothing. Desperate, he put his finger over Michael's nose. Come on, he begs. Still nothing. 

No. No no no no no. This can't be happening. Michael can't die. No. He refuses to accept it. You're not dying, asshole. He grabs Michael's arms and injects the antivenin into his veins. And waits. 

\---

Castiel stares in shock at the figure in the doorway. How did she-? Before he can complete his thought, he sees Lucifer moves from the corner of his eyes. This is the first time he'd seen Lucifer in action. The man is fast. One moment he was standing behind Castiel and the next he's no longer in the room with them. Meg fired a few shots at the flying figure, but each one misses, landing with a hard crack into the wooden wall panels. 

Instinctively, he reaches for his gun at his waist, but the holster is empty. Of course. He was too busy worrying about Michael he had completely forgotten about his Beretta. Or did he? The Beretta was lying only a few feet away from him. He would have stumbled into it trying to hoist Michael up. 

He glances at Michael noting that his holster is empty too. His blood runs cold. Meg must have come back and taken them. It's so obvious now what her intention was from the start. 

He feels sick. He'd led a killer back to the apartment. Back to Michael's _home_. And what was one of the main don'ts Michael taught him? Never go home after an attack. Go to a motel or hotel. Wherever that isn't your permanent residence. Castiel had totally forgotten about that in his panic. 

Now, they'd been breached. Michael is still dying, and they have Meg to deal with. Meg, who's pointing her gun at him. He realizes belatedly that he should've moved, take cover when Meg's attention was diverted. Too late now, he thinks as he shifts and Meg's stern voice as well as the threat of a bullet through his head stops him. "Don't move!" He stays where he is, hands up in surrender, blue eyes never leaving her heart-shaped face. 

"You followed us," he says, stating the obvious. Meg's lips curl up into a cunning smile. 

"Of course, I followed you, Clarence. You're not going to tell me where Lucifer is. Not for real," she drawls. "Besides, I think we still have some unfinished business." Her eyes light up and her demeanor changes; more sultry, provocative. He narrows his eyes at her. Her smile grows wider as she winks at him. "Maybe we can move some furniture around when this unpleasant business is over. Some rough sex after a good kill always keeps me warm at night."

He tries to come up with something to keep Meg talking, to distract her long enough for Lucifer to form a plan. But before he can open his mouth, she interrupts. "As much as I love that mouth of yours, sweetheart, keep it close for now while the adults work, huh?" Her eyes shift to the entrance of the closet. "Lucifer! Come out, come out, wherever you are," she sings as she moves closer. Castiel is standing at the foot of the bed, too far to attempt to jump her. But if he's fast enough, he'd be able to- 

A stinging, hot pain rips through his right calf as a bullet penetrates his muscles and flesh and exits him, hitting the wooden bedpost. He screams in agony, legs crumbling from underneath him as he collapses to the floor, onto his elbows. Meg shot him! Without warning, no ceremony, nothing. 

Castiel had never been shot before, and the pain is shocking, sharp and merciless. He pushes himself up into a sitting position and leans against the foot of the bed, panting. He squeezes his eyes shut, hands shaking as he slowly approaches the wound. He squints his eyes open, almost passing out from the amount of blood staining his jeans.

Gritting his teeth, he forces his trembling hand over the wound and presses hard, grunting low in his throat at the sudden burst of pain. The sound of exploding glass sends him diving to the ground, at the same time as he hears more shots being fired. His head is spinning as he loses all sense of direction, unable to distinguish up from down and left to right. He's losing too much blood.

His subconscious mind must be working in overdrive because he next thing he knows, he's clawing at the sheets beside him and using it to help stop the bleeding. 

Another shot rings out, loud and sharp in his ears. The beep continues feeling like its drilling its way into his head. It feels like his eardrums are exploding. He closes his eyes and breathes calmly. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. When he feels his heartbeat slows, he opens his eyes again, this time feeling much clearer; the pain in his thigh a dull throb now instead of the piercing agony. He looks to his side just in time to see Lucifer hits Meg with his gun. Her head snaps to the side; impact hard enough to break skin. Blood starts to seep out from the deep cut at her brow. 

Clenching his hands into fists, he pushes himself up and using the bed for balance pulls himself to unsteady feet, favoring the injured one. He watches as Lucifer injects Michael with the antivenin. Staring at the man's still form, Castiel waits, heart beating in his throat. 

\---

Wake up, asshole. Fucking wake up!

Lucifer glares at the motionless man on the bed. His vision blurs. He wipes at his eyes angrily before he drags Michael's off the bed to the wooden floor. "Wake up, you bastard!" he demands as he places his palms on the center of his ribs and presses. Once. Twice. "Wake up!" His voice breaks. He presses down on his chest again. "This is the second time in three months, Michael! What the fuck? You better wake up or else-" He continues to apply pressure. "Michael!"

He takes a deep breath and leans down, pressing his mouth over Michael's unresponsive ones and exhales. He did it a few more time before resuming CPR. "Come on, Michael. You can do this. You." He presses down hard. "Can." He pants, tears threatening to fall. "Do." He pushes down again. "This." His voice cracks, shoulder slumping as he falls to his butt beside Michael. "You can do this," he whispers, voice hoarse. 

Michael coughs. One time. Before breaking out into a continuous cough, body jerking at the force of it, sending spittles everywhere. "Michael? Michael!" he yells, as he grabs hold of the man's shoulder and maneuvers him so that he's lying on his side. He lies down on the floor beside the man, pushing the sweaty strand off his face. "Michael? Can you hear me? Say something, react, whatever if you can hear my voice," he demands, slapping the man face lightly. 

Blue eyes flutter open. "I heard you," he croaks. His gums are bleeding, and he's shivering. His temperature is still abnormally high. When he opens his eyes, they're bloodshot; red tinging the white surrounding the pupils. His eyes are bleeding. 

"Good. Good. Stay with me, Michael," he soothes unsure if he's trying to comfort the man or himself. As he watches, Michael's nose starts to bleed, and he starts coughing again. The spittles flying out are red this time. Shit! 

"You're going to be okay, just- take it easy okay? I'm going to get you in the tub. You need to cool down. You're burning up," he says, holding a hand over Michael's forehead. He's feverish, it's obvious, his eyes unfocused. "Right." He grabs one of Michael's arm and drapes it around his shoulder, and in one breath, he pushes up taking Michael's full weight. 

As he moves towards the bathroom, he catches sight of Castiel. He's standing by the bed pain marring his features. Lucifer glances down and spots the blood. "You got shot." 

"I'm fine," Castiel bites out. "Take care of Michael. I'll stay here and watch Meg." His face is pale and he sweaty, but at least, he's standing up, sheets wrapped around the wound. 

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," he nods. "Hurry."

He stares at the boy. Castiel is just a boy. A fragile one at that, young features marred with pain. There’s a sort of vulnerability in his eyes that he tries to hide, but Lucifer sees it anyway. It hurts him. He wants to stay but-

"Okay," he says instead. Nodding towards the bedside drawer beside Michael's bed, he adds. "Check the drawers. There might be a first aid kit in there. Michael taught you how to stitch yourself up, right?" Castiel nods. "Alright," he says before heading straight for the bathroom. He flicks on the light, and the large mirror above the sink lights up. He lays Michael beside the tub and quickly turns on the taps. The water is freezing cold. Good. He lets the tap runs, rushing to grab a handful of towel and crouches beside Michael again. 

The man is semi-conscious; the inside of his crack lips tainted with blood. The bleeding at his nose seems to have stopped. It's not a heavy flow, hardly reached his lips. Just a smear beneath his nostrils. His eyes are the most troubling ones. Even in the low light, he can see the red in them. Shit, the poison is in his system long enough to cause internal bleeding. Lifting Michael's arms, he starts to tugs the damp t-shirt over his head. He can't believe the first time he gets to do this is during a life-threatening crisis. 

Throwing the shirt to the side, he starts to unbuckle Michael's belt, unable to stop the blush from coloring his cheeks. This is so wrong. How many times had he imagined this? How many times had he let himself undress Michael while in the shower? In bed late at night while jacking off? His hands shake, and his throat goes dry as the belt slips out the hoops. Michael's hipbones peek out from the waistband of his jeans and the small dusty trail beneath his belly button is very distracting. 

Despite never having done it before, he found himself imagining what it would feel like to have a cock on his tongue, specifically Michael's. To have a thick, wide girth stretching his lips, filling his mouth until chokes on it. To feel the weight of it in his mouth, and how it would taste like to taste Michael's arousal. Jesus, Lucifer! Get a grip on yourself. This is not the place and definitely not the time to entertain such thoughts. 

He'd gotten the top few buttons of Michael’s jeans off; his dark gray boxers now visible when a hand slaps down on top of his, stopping his movement. Lucifer looks up, confused. Michael is breathing hard through his nose, staring at him with pain-filled eyes. He's shaking his head. Frowning, Lucifer explains. "I need to get you in the tub, Michael. You're burning."

"I'm fine," Michael gruffs out, panting slightly. Even the slight effort is draining his energy.

"Stop talking. Come on, it's not like I haven't seen you naked before-"

"You _haven't_ seen me naked before," Michael bites out. 

"Is that what the problem is? We're both guys-" He stops from continuing that line of argument seeing as he fucks Castiel on a weekly basis. "I'm trying to save your life here," he tries instead. "I'm not being a pervert, okay?" What? It's not like he's going to act on it.

"I know you're not," Michael breathes out. "But I can't."

"Why not?"

"Just leave the towels here. I'll get into the tub myself. I'll call for you when I'm done."

"What?! No way! You're in no condition to do anything by yourself. What if you drown in the tub?"

"I won't. But if it makes you feel better, you can come and check in on me every few minutes. But stay at the door." He sounds more sober now, his voice stronger. His eyes look clearer too; the fogginess from before gone. He still looks bleary enough that Lucifer doesn't feel comfortable leaving him alone. He places a hand on Michael's forehead. His skin is clammy to the touch, and he still too warm. Jesus, how is he still speaking so clearly when he's probably delirious as fuck. 

"Okay, you really need to get into the tub now, Michael. I'm not kidding. Stop being a prude. I promise I won't look." He peers over the edge of the tub. The water is almost full. "Come on."

"NO!" he shouts. Lucifer freezes. He stares into Michael's face. He looks furious; intense blue eyes even more scary with that feverish hue to it. Then, like a wave crashing onto shore, his expression breaks. A sort of brokenness overcomes his features, a plea of desperation. "Please," he begs. Lucifer stares at him, unable to understand or make sense of what's going on. But Michael just continues to look at him like a drowning man clutching at a leaking barrel at sea. Lucifer is utterly perplexed.

"Okay," he finally answers. Michael slumps in relief. "I'll come and check on you in 5 minutes. Is that enough time for you to get in the tub?" Michael nods. "Call me if you need anything."

"Thank you. For understanding."

"Well, I guess everyone's got their own crazy to deal with. Just promise me not to drown."

"I promise."

"Just so you know, this is the second time you almost died on me. I don't trust you. Not one single bit."

Michael huffs out a laugh; the sound slightly throaty and wet than Lucifer would have like but, at least, he can still laugh. That should be a good indicator right? "Go. Get out of here." Michael waves a hand in the direction of the door. Lucifer stands, eyeing the man worriedly before heading to the door. He stands there for a moment, doorknob in hand as he casts one last look at Michael. "Go, you pervert," the man mocks. Rolling his eyes, Lucifer closes the door, leaving it open just a tiny sliver so that he could hear if something were to go wrong. 

What the fuck was all that about?

\---

Castiel closes his eyes and lets out the breath he'd been holding once Lucifer shuffles past him to the adjoining bathroom. When he hear the door opens and the two of them stagger inside, he opens his eyes. The room stares back at him. Silent. Still. Unmoving. 

He feels cold all a sudden. He wants to hug himself, rubs his arms but he knows this isn't the type of cold one could warm up from. It comes from within. This stark loneliness that comes with the knowledge that he has no one. No one at all. That he’s really truly on his own. 

Without his permission, tears start to well up in his eyes. He _hurts_. And he doesn't know which one hurts worse. The wound in his leg or the hollowed feeling in his chest. He doesn't know how long he stands there like that, just staring as silent tears run down his face. When he finally found the energy to move, the tear tracks had dried up, and the bleeding had stopped. Or so he thinks. The bloodstain on the sheet doesn't seem to be spreading. 

He sits on the edge of the bed and starts to unwraps the makeshift bandage around his leg, not wanting to lug the entire comforter around. The blood had clogged, sticking the fabric of the sheet to his jeans and trying to separate the sheet from his wound is painful. He grimaces as he pulls it off, hands shaking the entire time. He takes it slow, afraid that any sudden movement will cause the bleeding to start up again. When he finally removed the last of it, he sighs in relief. His jeans are ripped, but he still can't see the wound properly. 

He tries to stand up when a hand on his shoulder stops him. He looks up. 

"Sit down. Let me patch you up."

Castiel stares as Lucifer hurries to the walk in closet and exits with a set of rip ties. "You're lucky Michael survived, bitch," he mutters as he wraps them around Meg's wrists and ankles, securing her. "Or you're going to be so very sorry." He stands up, brushing his hands before striding towards Michael's bedside table. He searches around in the drawers before taking out the first aid kit. "How does a guy not have lubes and condoms in his bedside drawer?" he asks, mumbling to himself. An incredulous look colors his face. "Who am I living with?"

Lucifer walks over with the box, still looking a little shell shock. Which is exactly how Castiel is feeling right now. 

"What are you doing here? You should be with Michael," he says, nonplussed. "Here, give me the box. I can handle this myself. Go to Michael." He reaches for the box, but Lucifer slaps his hands away.

"Don't be stupid. I remembered the first time I got shot. It burns like a bitch. I know it's hard to believe, but I cried. Real actual tears. Man tears," he corrects. "I know you're trying to be brave or strong or whatever, just don't okay? You just popped your cherry. It's meant to hurt." Lucifer opens the box, taking out a pair of tweezer, a bottle of alcohol and Neosporin, adhesive tapes and a roll of bandages. Castiel eyes the tweezer, feeling slightly nauseated at the thought of it digging into his flesh. 

"The bullet went through," he says, motioning to the bullet hole on the bedpost. "We don't need that," he adds, pointing to the scary looking device.

Lucifer nods, pulling out a needle and thread from the box. "Then, we only need to stitch you up. But we need to clean the wound first. This might hurt," he warns as he pours the alcohol directly onto the wound. Castiel hisses, clutching at the bloody bedsheets. It burns. Lucifer did the same on the exit wound and Castiel almost double over in pain. "Fuck!" he curses. Lucifer laughs before dabbing the wound which has started to bleed slightly with a swab. He picks up the needle and thread, making eye contact with him before saying, "Ready?"

He nods. Lucifer starts to stitch him up, threading the needle through the flap of his skin. Castiel has to bite the inside of his cheeks to stop the pained noises from coming out. Luckily it doesn't take many stitches to sew it up and before long, Lucifer is cutting the thread. "There. Now let's put a bandage on it." 

He places a patch over the wound before wrapping the bandage around his leg. Castiel exhales, blue eyes wavering as he watches Lucifer works. His eyes are focused on the tasks at hand, hands moving quick and efficient. Staring at the man, Castiel understands how he could have fallen for Lucifer before. He can be thoughtful when he wants to. Castiel can feel his eyes starts to prickle as a warm feeling overcomes him. 

"Thank you," he says as Lucifer clips the bandages together. "You should go and check on Michael."

Lucifer glances at the door to the bathroom. "You're right. He'll pitch a fit about me seeing him naked as the day he was born, but you know what, here's all the fuck I give," he says, throwing his hands wide. Castiel shakes his head, a small smile at the corner of his lips. "Can you move?" 

Castiel pushes himself to his feet. Gently, he put his weight on his injured foot. He grimaces. "It's possible. I think I just need to shuffle along the wall for support," he says as he starts to limp to the nearest wall. He yelps when he's lifted off his feet, bridal style. He stares at Lucifer with wide eyes. "What are you're doing?" he asks, shocked.

"I'm carrying you back to your room where you're going to remain for the rest of the night and probably tomorrow. It's faster this way," he shrugs, moving swiftly to the door, careful not to bump Castiel's head on the frame. When he reaches Castiel's room, he lays him down on the bed before flicking the lamp by his bedside on. "If you need anything, just call," he says. “If you’re in pain or if you just need someone to dry hump with, call. Okay?” 

Castiel shakes his head, making himself as comfortable as he can with an injured leg. Lucifer walks to the door, but before he can close it, Castiel calls out. “Luci?”

Lucifer hesitates at the door. “Thank you,” Castiel says quietly, the overwhelming feeling is back again threatening to choke him. Lucifer nods. There’s a look of understanding on his face. Maybe he does understand what Castiel doesn’t say, or can’t say. The magnitude of his action. What it meant to him and how much he needed that. 

The door closes with a soft click. Castiel stares at the place where Lucifer had disappeared for a moment. Then, he breaks into a small smile. 

He might not be loved, but at least, he's cared for. Michael took the dart for you his brain reminds him. He asked you to leave, to run. He cared about your safety. He cared if you're alive or dead. And Lucifer, he took care of you. You’re not unwanted. You belonged. Maybe not in the same sense as how Michael belonged to Lucifer and vice versa but you still belonged. You're not alone. You're not alone he repeats feeling the word takes hold. He lets the three words comfort him to sleep, hands over his chest. 

_You're not alone._


	5. Chapter 5

Michael's room is a mess. His sheets are crumpled at the bottom of the bed stained with blood. Meg is still unconscious on the floor and by the looks of it, still bleeding. He sighs. Walking to the bathroom, he leans against the wall by the door, not opening it but speaking in between the cracks. 

"Say 'Lucifer is my hero' if you hadn't drowned."

"Go to hell," comes Michael's voice from inside. 

Smiling, Lucifer goes back to where he left Meg, picking up the first aid kit. He kneels down beside her body and peels open her jacket. Cutting the fabric of her t-shirt, he takes the tweezer and digs for the bullet in her chest. He hadn't hit any major artery or organs so she should survive. Cutting her dark jeans, he does the same for the wound on her thigh. She's going to hurt a hell lot when she wakes up. 

He picks up the needle and thread and sews her up. He doesn't need her dying on them. Not yet. Lifting her body over his shoulder, he carries her to their holding cell. It's basically an empty room except for a chair screwed into the middle of the floor with cuffs on the arms and legs. Michael doesn't condone torturing, but even he understands the need for these type of room if and when they're attacked. 

They have exits contingency strategies for cases like this. They could escape the building via a duct in the wall that leads all the way to the ground floor. Or they could escape to the roof. He used to mock Michael for being douchey enough to have a helipad and chopper. They are gritty real deal hired killers, not James Bond. Michael just ignored him like usual. 

He set Meg down in the chair, smack her around a little to make sure she's really out before cutting the tierip around her wrists. Putting her hands on the metal cuff on the arms of the chair, he locked her up. He does the same thing with her ankles. When he's satisfied that she's going nowhere, he leaves her there, deadbolting the door behind him. Let her rot. They have time enough. 

Walking back to Michael's room, he goes straight to the bathroom. He enters without knocking, startling Michael, who's shivering in the tub. The man rushes to cover himself with the towel he left behind. Lucifer rolls his eyes. "I never knew you're such a prude, Michael." 

"What are you doing in here?" he scowls. "Get out."

Ignoring him, Lucifer continues to approach the tub. He crouches beside Michael and feels his forehead. The man is staring at him with wide eyes, the veins in his body sticking out and he's clearly shaking. The fever had gone down slightly, however. He avoids staring at Michael's body, keeping his eyes on the man's face. "How do you feel?"

"Harassed," Michael growls, voice low and shaky as he tries to breathe evenly. 

He snorts. "Apart from that?"

"Cold."

Nodding, he turns around and slides down the tub, leaning against the wooden material. "Just a few more minutes and then we'll get you out."

"You mean, you getting out of here and me letting myself out."

He laughs. "Why are you so shy anyway? You honestly think I would molest you?" 

Michael keeps quiet at that. "Seriously, though," Lucifer shifts to turns around. A wet hand grips his shoulder, holding him in place. He scoffs. "Okay, okay," he says, holding up his hands in surrender. "If you don't want me to look so bad, I won't look." He settles back into his spot. They are quiet for awhile before he opens his mouth again. "Is it just me or are you equally as nervous about letting others see your body? Is that why I never saw you with anyone? Are you still a virgin, Michael?" he asks, a nonstop train of question, one after another. 

When Michael doesn't answer him, he continues. "Have you look in the mirror recently? You have a rocking hot body and a nice face to boot. You're the last person who should be feeling any shortcomings with your nakedness." 

Lucifer stares ahead, at the drawers beneath the sink and mentally smacks himself upside the head for having no filter between his brain and his mouth. Why is he even still talking? He's making things more awkward. They sit there silently for awhile, Michael still not speaking. Probably too uncomfortable to have any decent response. 

When the silence becomes too much to bear, Lucifer pipes up again. "Is it because I'm gay or bi or whatever?" he asks quietly, finally approaching the root of the problem. That's the reason isn't it? Michael is uncomfortable because Lucifer is sexually attracted to men. Michael knows he slept with Castiel, probably heard them fucking once or twice. Castiel can be loud in bed. Especially when he wanted Lucifer to take him rough and hard from behind as tears streaked down his face. The kid is so damaged. Most of which is his fault he reminds himself. Lucifer is no doctor or therapist. He has no idea what to do or how to help him anymore.

Michael is straight, a real heterosexual man and he's not comfortable having another man's eyes on him when he's naked. That's that. Lucifer will just have to deal with it. He sighs when Michael still doesn't answer and moves to stand, resigned to leaving the room when a wet hand brush his shoulder, stopping him. Bewildered, he settles back down against wooden tub. And waits. Michael remains silent for a few minutes before Lucifer hears him swallows.

"It has nothing to do with you," he says softly. "It sounds cliche but, it's me." 

Lucifer frowns. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Something happened to me when I was young. It left a mark. I'm not comfortable with people seeing that."

"You have a scar? Where?" he asks, surprised. Michael has several scars on his body. Who doesn't in this line of work? He doesn't recall mapping out Michael's body, but it seems like his subconscious mind did because he's able to count off the scars on him. There's one at his side; a stab wound. He has a long slash wound on his right arm, near the bicep. And a new addition, a bullet wound on his left chest, a few inches below his collarbone. Now that he thinks of it, they bore almost identical wound above their hearts. Huh. 

Well, he doesn't have any other scars on him that Lucifer can tell. He meant it when he said he'd seen Michael naked before, well, _almost_ naked. He'd seen him in his boxer. How can you not when you share almost the same space as the person? And he meant the times they shared a motel room. While on the job. Michael always seems hot and bothered when Lucifer stumbled onto him changing, and he'll pull up his jeans or sweats quickly. He never thought much about it then but seeing Michael's reaction tonight, the man wasn't just shy or body conscious. He's hiding something. And the only place he hasn't seen was-

"You got a scar on your ass?" No answer. "No. Don't tell me it's on your penis?" he blurts out bluntly, incredulous. "How do you managed that?"

"It's not something I like to talk about, and we're not talking about it."

"You didn't like get castrated, right?" he asks, unable to stop the image his mind is projecting. He's so tempted to just spin around and take a look but he also knows Michael is going to freak out if he does. This is so weird. Is that why Michael never seem to get laid? Oh god, no. His never-was-there-to-begin-with future sex life with Michael evaporates like a cloud of smoke into thin air. 

"No! What the fuck, Luke?" Michael yells indignant.

"Then what? That's the only thing I can think of that some freak would do when they get their hands on someone like us," he yells back, perplexed. 

Michael gives a loud, frustrated groan. "I said I don't want to talk about it. Can we just forget about this?" 

"I can't! Now all I can picture is a stump where your dick is supposed to be! And that is not a good image to have in your head. Believe me," he stresses.

"Fucking hell, Luke," Michael grumbles under his breath. He hears some water movement behind him, little splashes against the wooden tub. And he wants to be the better man here, he really does, but he's just a human being, and when put in an absurd situation like this, his mind is curious okay? So he turns around, quick and swift, and peeks. Michael had taken the cloth he'd used earlier to protect his modesty to cover his face, and he's- exposed. 

Lucifer takes in the man wet chest, his flat stomach, the V-shape of his hips to the dark wet hair at his groin. His thighs are set slightly apart, huge and strong and in between them, he can see the non-stump that is Michael's package. And he's packing. But at the same time, something is off. His eyes zoom in on his penis, he sees something else. Is that his pubic hair distorting the view or are there markings on the pinkish skin? He frowns, leaning closer, both hands on the side of the tub now. No, it's some form of marking. He swallows. Michael was branded. 

One word in capital letter stands out starkly against the soft pale skin.

SIN.

He can't stop staring. Not even when he sees the jolt in those thighs and the towel is back in place. He keeps staring at the spot until Michael's voice, cold and icy, breaks him out of his stupor. "Get out." Lucifer looks up. Michael is not looking at him. He's staring at his hands, an unreadable expression on his face. The air surrounding the man is frigid. It feels like they're at the North Pole all a sudden, the room temperature dropping, or maybe that's his body heat and the icy water just serve to add to the illusion. He freezes. He knows he'd crossed the line.

"Michael-" he starts, slow like he's approaching an angry hissing snake ready to strike.

"Get out, Lucifer." Michael sounds calm, eerily so. 

"Michael, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"GET THE FUCK OUT!" he yells, staring right at Lucifer, blue eyes blazing. Are those tears in the man's eyes? Oh god, he made Michael cry. The fuck?

"Michael, please just calm down. I-"

"Please, get out," he repeats, voice breaking in the middle. His eyes are bright, and his face is pleading. He's clutching at the cloth so tightly his knuckles are turning white. He's a wreck; a gutted look on his face. He's shaking again, pale skin starting to turn blue. 

Lucifer grabs the dry towels by the side of the tub and stands swiftly, draping it over Michael's shoulder. The man flinches away at first like Lucifer is going to hit him or something which is absurd, but when the soft cottony material touches him, Michael relaxes although he still won't look at him. 

Lucifer nudges him, silently begging him to stand up. He hopes Michael would listen because the man is shaking so bad now he can hear his teeth chattering. With the towel around the man's shoulder, Lucifer wraps an arm around his back and slowly guides him up. Michael moves with him. The water dripping down his body into the tub makes a soft splashing sound. It doesn't escape Lucifer’s attention that Michael held his head down the entire time. 

When they're both standing, he helps Michael out the tub. Then, he grabs another towel and ties it around his waist. The man just stands there, motionless as Lucifer fusses about him, trying to dry him as fast as he can. He rubs his hands and fingers trying to get color back into them. Michael just lets him. His stillness is starting to scare him. "I'm so sorry, Michael. I crossed the line. You don't want me to look. I shouldn't have looked. I should've respected your wish."

"You should have," the man whispers hoarsely still not looking up.

"I know! Please, Michael, look at me," he begs. 

The man lifts his head and stares at him with shame-filled eyes like he's expecting the worst; like he's expecting Lucifer to start hitting him or throws insults and who the fuck knows? Just like he's expecting some bad shit to happen. "Just say it," he croaks out.

"Say what?" he asks, exasperated.

"You saw."

"I did."

"So you know."

"Know what?" 

"That I'm wrong. That I'm bad," he says, eyes starting to fill with tears again. Lucifer feels like his heart is trying to explode with how much wrongness this whole situation is. He stands there like an idiot, at a loss of what to do. Torturing people he's good at, but comforting? God, he's so out of his comfort zone here. "I'm an abomination," he finishes. 

"No, you're not. Don't say things like that," he says, grabbing Michael by the shoulders and leading him out. The room is as he left it, bloody and a mess. He gives the bed one glance and steers Michael out the door. The man hesitates just a second before following. Lucifer leads them back to his own room, opening the door and guiding Michael to his bed. He goes to his closet and takes out his sweats and his favorite t-shirt to sleep in, the one that is so soft it looks like it might fall apart at any moment. He walks back to the man and places the clothes beside him. 

Michael glances at them but doesn't move. "They're for you," he explains. Michael looks up then, a frown on his face. Rolling his eyes, he removes the towel from Michael's shoulder and pulls the t-shirt over his head. Then he goes down on his knees and starts to unhook the towel from his waist, deliberately taking his time just in case Michael wants to stop him, he can. But the man just sits there, probably staring at him because he can feel that burning sensation through his skull.

He pushes the towel aside, now very aware that his face is in kissing distance with Michael's naked dick. He can feel the man's uneasiness pours off him in waves in the stilted breaths and from the way his hands tighten on the bed. Reaching for the sweats, he places them on the floor, right at Michael's feet. Then, he lifts one of his legs and slips them through the opening. He does the same for the other one. When he get them both in the correct holes, he slides the pants up his legs, over his thighs and at his nudge, Michael lifts himself allowing him to pulls it up his butt and snaps it snugly on his hips. 

Satisfied, he puts both hands on either side of Michael and pushes up. The floor is wooden, and his knees are already protesting, okay? He takes a seat beside the still not speaking, not moving man. But at least, he doesn't seem to have a wall of spikes around himself anymore. Lucifer rests his arms on his knees and turns his head to the side, trying to catch Michael's eyes. The man notices his gaze. Lucifer can see it in the way he tries to avoid it, blue eyes on the floor or his hands or his knees. 

"I'm sorry," he repeats. It's the only thing he can think of to say. "I have no right, and I'm sorry I violated you like that."

Michael grimaces. "Please don't use the word 'violate'. That makes it sounds like you raped me or something."

"Well, in a way I did cross some sort of line. You said no, and I did it anyway. So I'm sorry. Please know that I really am. I can't stress that enough."

Michael stays quiet for awhile before he clenches his jaw and swallows. "Do you think it's hideous?" he asks, voice so soft Lucifer has to lean in to hear him. 

"What? The scar?"

Michael nods. "No," he says simply. 

Tears fill up Michael eyes like a faucet and Lucifer's afraid that he might have said the wrong thing because damn, Michael is fucking crying. Silent tears fall from those dark lashes, staining the sweats he had on. Lucifer doesn't dare to speak, afraid he might say something worse that would cause the man to break down more. The seconds pass by, then minutes, and it feels longer but is maybe about two to three minutes, but he can't stand the silence anymore, so he bites the bullet. 

"I'll kill the person who did that to you. If you hadn't already."

Michael huffs, bowing his head low to stare at his hands. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, his shoulders sagging with it. "I'm tired, Luke. I'm going to go to bed. Thank you for taking care of me," he says, glancing to his side and looking at Lucifer's knees. Then, he pushes himself up from the bed and moves to walk to the door. Lucifer looks up, startled before grabbing his wrist. 

"Where do you think you're going?" he asks, frowning.

Michael turns his head around, expression confused. "I'm going to bed. I told you."

"Yes, but you're not going back to your room. Have you _seen_ your room? You can't sleep there. Why did you think I brought you to my room for?" he asks, expression still bewildered. "You do think I'm a pervert, don't you?" he adds before sighing defeatedly. "Maybe I deserve that." He stands up and takes Michael's shoulder and leads him to the side of the bed, flipping the covers open. "Sleep. I'll take the couch," he says pointing to the small two-seater in the room.

"I would leave, but I'm not comfortable leaving you alone tonight. Not after you almost died of poisoning so you'll just have to deal with my presence watching over you." He pauses. "And not at all in the creepy stalker way," he adds in self-defense. He pushes the man into the bed when he makes no movement to move at all. When Michael is all tucked up in bed, under the covers, he moves to the couch. He doesn't turn off the light but dims it instead. What if Michael takes a turn for the worse during the night? He needs to be able to tell. 

Fluffing up the couch pillow, he props it up on one side and lays down on it, facing the bed, arms crossed in front of him. He closes his eyes, not wanting Michael to see him looking and be too uncomfortable to fall asleep but keeps his ears pricked for any telltale signs. There's some shuffling in bed, the sheets rustling but other than that it's quiet. Michael is breathing normally, soft puff of breaths. His heart starts to calm along with the stillness of the room.

His thoughts run to the brand mark on Michael. Who would have done such a thing? And why the word SIN? It doesn't fit with what he knows about the man. Maybe there's more to him than he realizes or been able to read. The thought stings a little. But then again, they never did share back stories. Lucifer still hadn't told him what happened during those months of captivity or what he did that led up to it. 

Though, in the last months, he had learned just a tad more about Michael. He's recruited as a child; he doesn't know the precise age but young. He was in bad shape when Naomi found him. Something bad happened to him. Lucifer’s heart aches. He wonders if that had something to do with the brand. 

Michael went to MIT where he graduated with a degree. That's impressive. He never thought Michael is the studious type and Computer Science too. All things considered, it makes more sense now that he has a sharper intellect. It’s obvious he’s smart, not that he's ever going to say it out loud. Lucifer is good, but that came from training. His highest form of education is high school. But he’s a quick learner so there.

The odd part was that Michael could have a shot at a normal, successful life but instead, he chose the life of a hired killer. Why? Out of loyalty? Naomi did mention that Michael is a loyal person, and he sees it too, in his actions and the way he is. But maybe there's something else? Lucifer closes his eyes and exhales. He should stop thinking, stop poking his nose where he doesn't belong. Everyone is privy to keep their own secrets. 

Michael had been understanding enough not to pry or ask when he'd been recovering, even after they became- whatever it is they are. Buddies, partners in crime. Friends. He shakes his head deprecatingly. Yeah. Everything except what he wanted them to be. Does he dare, though? Does he want to ruin the camaraderie that they have to pursue something that he doesn't know how he feels about? When he looks at Michael, he gets this feeling in his gut. This deep sense of endearment. Like he wants to be close to him. Touch him. See him smile. Laugh. Annoy the hell out of him. And then there’s the more primal need. The need to protect the man, care for him and- _love_ him.

And that's the problem. Love. When he fell in love, they all ended in disaster. Just take a look at his history. He was with one girl his entire senior year at school, and that was his childhood friend from when he was five years old. When they separated, it left a hole in him. He likes to think their breakup was amicable, and to be honest, it was because well, he can't follow her to Cambridge. 

Then, it was years of nothing. No feeling, no bond, no attachment. It's not like he's mourning over her loss, no. He did try. He went to bars to chat up women. He flirted with cashiers and waitresses. He went all the traditional route, but nothing worked. No sparks. No interest. He just doesn't feel it. It doesn't work that easy for him. He used to think it's an advantage. Especially with the kind of job he does. 

So it came as a big surprise when he fell for his target's daughter, Lilith Linchester. Thinking about Lilith brought back a lot of unpleasant memories, so he stops. The thing is, it's hard for him to feel a connection with someone- fall in love if you're being picky about it, but when he does, he's really invested. And with Michael he thinks, it's passed invested. It's somewhere along the line of romantic novel undying-love level kind of bullshit. 

Opening his eyes, he turns his head, dimmed blue eyes searching for the man lying in his bed. What if he screws up and he always does- just look at what just happened, and they can't be friends anymore? He doesn’t want to lose Michael. It's not something he likes to think about. Or dwells on. So, despite telling himself he's doing Castiel a favor by being his distraction, the boy is the same deal to him. If he can't get Michael, the boy is the next best thing.

It's not like he hadn't been doing the same thing months ago, back in Lawrence. The reason why he was so attracted to the boy in the first place. He hadn’t understood then what it meant. His hatred for Michael. The betrayal weighed heavily on him. And the reason it did was that _he’s in love with his fucking partner_. It took ruining an innocent life for him to see that. 

Castiel. When Lucifer first met him, Castiel struck a chord in him. He felt familiar, yet he was not. Lucifer had never felt like that before. It wasn’t sexual, but when Castiel responded to his advances sexually, it invoked that need inside him. That want. He was consumed by those cobalt blue eyes. All those suppressed feeling exploded, and it was hellfire. It felt good, a relief, an exhale but at the same time he was suffering. Tormented. And he didn’t know why. Not until after. 

If he can choose one person he’d wronged the most in his life- and there were many, he would pick Castiel. Lucifer doesn’t deserve the look of gratitude Castiel showed him earlier tonight. Not when he’s still using the boy. He stares at Michael. In the dim light, it's easy to imagine Castiel is someone else. Somehow that feels safer than approaching the real thing. He thinks Castiel understood. Lucifer's not lying anymore. Nor is he manipulating. Castiel knows. That makes the difference. 

"I can hear you thinking from here. It's very distracting," Michael says with his back to him.

"Well, I'm not supposed to fall asleep so what else can I be doing? I'm not going to 'entertain' myself while you're in the room with me," he shoots back, emphasizing the word 'entertain', so there's no doubt what he means by that. 

"Can you please get your head out of the gutter because you're making me second guess my offer," Michael groans, as he turns around and stares at Lucifer with a fed up look on his face. 

"Were you going to offer me something?" he asks, incredulous. "What? A handjob? Blowie? You might think I'm easy, but I only go to second base after you buy me dinner first," he jokes, trying to hide how his heart is jackrabbiting in his chest. 

Even in the dim light, he can see Michael rolling his eyes in frustration. "Do you want to come to bed or not?" he gripes.

"What?" Okay, he didn't mean to sound so dumb. It's just reflexes from Michael _asking_ him to bed.

Michael sighs and throws up one side of the cover, nudging his head at it. "If you're in bed with me, you can sleep too. You'd feel it if something were to go wrong. Besides, I feel fine. You worry too much."

The brows above his eyes are inching ever so slowly towards his forehead before he snaps back to his sense and jumps up, throwing his shirt off and starts to undo his jeans. "Whoa whoa whoa. What the hell? I asked you to bed, to _sleep_ not whatever it is you think is about to happen," Michael says, eyes wide as he stares at him, hands out in a calm down motion.

Now it's Lucifer's turn to roll his eyes. "Despite what you think of me, again, I repeat. I'm not that easy. Dinner first. Then second base. And maybe a date or two before you even get to have a sneak peek at-" he motions at his crotch. "I just want to put on something comfortable when I'm in bed." He moves to his closet again and pulls out a t-shirt and sweats. Not his favorite but still- comfortable enough. He rushes to pull them on and climbs into bed.

Michael moves to give him space and he's not going to be shy about this. He lets his arms and limbs free, spreading them wide so that he's in Michael's space. The man pushes up onto his elbow, scowling down at him. "What?" he asks innocently.

"What are you doing?" 

"Trying to sleep?"

"Do you really need that much space? You're taking more than half the bed." Which is saying something considering he has a king-size bed. Lucifer shrugs and grabs his pillow, pretending to be falling asleep. Michael stares at him for another moment or two before shaking his head, lying back down and turns around so that his back is facing Lucifer before scooting backward, pushing into him. 

"Hey!"

"What?" Michael answers in that mock-innocent voice. 

"Don't blame me if you wake up with my hard cock against your butt," he warns. 

Michael just laughs, a soft huffing before they quiet down. It is warm in the bed, and he can feel Michael's body heat under the covers and where they're pressed together. He stares at the back of the man's head, at the messy slightly damp hair; how it's curling up at his neck, that thick long sexy neck. 

"I can feel you staring. I didn't ask you to move from the couch to have you distract me with your staring."

Lucifer huffs, affronted and closes his eyes. Before long, the both of them are fast asleep. Two men occupying almost one side of the bed. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After Micifer fluff in the last chapter, I think it's time for some Destiel. Right?

The light on his phone turns on, brightening up the room with its creepy glow and a second later, the opening to "Smoke On Water" blares loudly from his bedside table. Dean groans as he turns around, slapping a hand over the wretched device, lifting his head blearily and slides the snooze button. Then, he rolls back into bed, hugs his pillow and continues to drool. Five minutes later, the alarm blares again and this time, Dean sits up with a zombie-like growl and grabs the phone, switching the alarm off for good. 

He sits there for awhile, staring at the wall in front of him, rubbing his face with the palm of his hands. He sniffs a little, clearing his throat before putting his feet on the forest green carpet stuck half under his bed and cover half his room. The soft fabric calms him, and he wriggles his toe in the material for awhile before heaving himself out of bed to grab his towel hanging on the hook behind his door. Walking blindly to the bathroom, he opens the door and switches on the light.

Cursing under his breath at the sudden glare, he squints his eyes and turns on the tap. He splashes some water onto his face before wiping the side of his jaws, feeling the rough scruff there. Is it time for a shave? Nah, he's too lazy to care at the moment, and Ash doesn't seem to have any work etiquette he's supposed to follow. The guy himself support a mullet. So he has no right to complain if he shows up to work looking like a hobo.

Grabbing his toothbrush, he turns around and leans on the sink, brushing his teeth and gurgles before shoving the shower curtain aside. He stands under the shower and sighs when the hot water pressure sprays down on him. This here is the life. Good water pressure. He dunks his head under the hard spray, feeling the water soak his dirty blonde hair, seeping into his ear and down his neck. He grabs at the shampoo blindly, squeezing the oak smelling liquid onto his hands and scrubs. He scratches at his scalp, giving himself a massage. Jeez, this feels good. 

Then, it's body wash time. Bobby must love the smell of woods and pine. The bathroom starts to smell like them, and it's sort of calming. It's like waking up in the wilderness and stepping under a waterfall. Except, instead of the cold mountain water, he gets this hot lava like the devil himself is caressing his skin. He lowers his hands until they're massaging his balls, taking the time to drag and pull on his cock, dragging the foreskin back and playing with the head a little. Maybe he has enough time to clean the pipes so to say.

Dean is in an incredible mood after his shower and post-orgasm glow, feeling reenergized and ready to take on the world. He whistles as he bumbles about the kitchen, setting up the coffee machine and even made himself a ham and cheese sandwich. He makes three more and stuffs them in the fridge for Bobby and Sam. He's drinking coffee at the kitchen counter when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Pulling his phone out, he raises his eyebrow in surprise at the notification.

Jimmy just sent him a message on Messenger. 

_My favorite color is green._

Dean can't help the smile on his face as he reads the message. Jimmy is still online. 

i luv pies, he replies. 

_I hope I didn't wake you up. My apologies if I did._

nah. im already up. no worries. y r u up so early? i didnt think u work.

_No, I don't. I can't sleep._

ahh so ur only talking 2 me bcoz ur bored. i see hw it is nw. 

_No, you misunderstand. I wanted to apologize for leaving so abruptly last night. I hope I hadn't offended you._

god, i cant stop laughing at the way u type man. chill a lil

There's a short silence where Jimmy doesn't write anything. Just the green dot and the word 'online' mocking him. For some reason, that tiny green dot is making him feel like he'd kicked a puppy. The green dot stares at him sadly. Jesus. Is he fully awake? He shakes himself and quickly types out a message. 

sry. it came out wrong. i like the way u talk. u make me smile :)

Okay, now he just seems cheesy. But at least, Jimmy is typing again. 

_I know I have an odd way of speaking. I've been told that many times. You don't have to feel bad about it._

Now Dean really feels bad. The way he said it, it seems like he gets that every day. People mocking him for the way he speaks. If Jimmy's still in high school- Did he get bullied for it? Fuck. He'd acted like a complete asshole. 

doesnt make it ok. im sorry jimmy. 

_You could make it up to me._

Dean frowns at the message. For some reason, the tip of his ears start to glow, and he can feel a blush heating his cheeks. Where did your mind go, Dean? There's no sexual innuendo there. This is Jimmy you're talking to. He just doesn't realize how that come off as. Or maybe Dean's just too horny, and he's seeing things when there's nothing there. Either way, he decides to play safe. 

yeah sure. anything.

_I want you to take your cock in your hand._

Okay, now that blush is flaring full force. He glances over his shoulder just to be sure no one is looking. He swallows, throat suddenly very dry. The sudden interest in his jeans is not helping matters at all. His hands are shaking slightly as he replies. 

jimmy?

_I'm horny, Dean._

god

_Not God. Jimmy._

jfc

_I don't understand what that means, Dean._

That seals it then. It's Jimmy. Jimmy freaking sexted him. What the actual hell?

jimmy wth? first ur all shy n quiet n unassuming n now u- wth???!

_I thought you'd be interested._

dont get me wrong. i am. i really am but- 

He accidentally presses enter, and his message breaks off. Before he could squeeze out the remainder of his message, Jimmy's reply come through. His eyes widen, and he feels warm, so warm he thinks his blood might be boiling. He shifts in his jeans, face guilty as he's forced to bites off the moan when the zipper brushes against his raging hard on. 

_Get yourself hard for me, Dean._

He stares back at the message shining brightly back at him. Flicking his eyes up to the time at the corner of the phone, he grits his teeth and rushes up the stairs to his bedroom. He slows down when he walks passed Sam's room but increases his speed immediately after. When he's safely locked inside his room in bed, he unbuttons his jeans and pulls down his pants and boxers in one go. If Jimmy is serious about doing this, he's not going to say no. And he’s not going to half-assed it either.

_Dean?_

yeah. cock out n evryting.

 _Good boy._

Dean shivers at that. Fuck, he can hear those words in Castiel's voice. It feels wrong to jerk off to Castiel when it's Jimmy on the other side, but it's not like the dude mind anyway since he's the one who sexted him first. He's not going to let this go to waste. He'd not get laid in way too long. And not-so-innocent Jimmy seems to hit all his kinks. Shit, he groans as he plays with the head of his cock. He's leaking precome already. What the hell is this guy doing to him?

_How hard are you?_

very

_I want you to play with your nipples for me, Dean. Make them hard. Pinch yourself if you have to._

Dean groans, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he trails one hand up his body, lifting up his shirt and plays with his nipples, pinching it and rubbing the nubs until they're hard, raw and sensitive. He swallows, feeling the fire roils in his blood, rushing down straight to his painfully red cock. Shit, he's so hard. 

so hard jimmy pls more

_Do you know what I want to do to you, Dean?_

wat?

_If I'm there right now, I'll lick your nipples until they're wet and slippery, then I will take your nubs into my mouth and sucks. I will keep on sucking until you squirm and I will still latch on, biting at those swollen pink nub until they're purple and bruised. Do you like that, Dean?_

very jfc

_I still don't know what that means. But nevermind. When your nipples are sensitive and raw, I'll force you to put your shirt back on so that the material will rub on it, never giving you any rest from the stimulation. I know how much you like your nipples played with, Dean. Then, I will lick a path down your flat stomach and tease the soft skin around your cock before I run my tongue over the head, licking the precome off. I love the way you taste. Musky, hot and salty._

Dean reads the message, feeling his face burns and his cock jerks as he imagines those lips on him, the day old scruff brushing the skin on his inner thighs, Jimmy's wicked tongue doing what he said he would. Jimmy writes like he knows Dean but he guesses it's just a spur of the moment thing. Letting their imagination runs to make the experience all the more real. But shit does Jimmy really hit all the right buttons. He brushes his finger over the dollop of precome at the head, wiping it off and stuffing it into his mouth. He groans at the taste. Jimmy is right. God, he misses the taste of semen. 

ohgod jimmy ur making me so hard, im sucking at my own precome. see wat u do 2 me. 

_I'm stroking myself too, Dean._

Jimmy is going to be the death of him. He tries to imagine the guy sitting in his room, pulling at his own junk, his breath low and husky, eyes hooded and he can't. All he sees is Castiel with his permanent bedhead like he'd already been through a few round of sex, those startling blue eyes that grow dark and hungry when he's aroused, his pale lips, the way the moans his name... 

u need 2 send me a pic of u man. 

Dean nearly swallows his tongue when Jimmy really sends him a picture. It's a dick pic. It's definitely a dick pic. He can see the long hard length in that small preview on Messenger. He clicks it open, and he's treated to the sight of Jimmy's hard member in his hand. He has delicate fingers, long and slender. And he's clean shaven. The skin around his cock pink and smooth. Ohmygod, Jimmy is a twink. 

omg ur not a pornstar r u becoz i swear ur dick looks familiar

There's a pause before Jimmy starts writing back. 

_All dicks look the same, Dean._

at least i can tell ur skin color now. ur tan-ish ;) 

_That's a very sharp observation, Dean. Congratulations._

Dean snorts. Along with his weird speech pattern, Jimmy has a real dry humor too. His jokes, though few, are always delivered with what he can only assume a blank face. He shakes his head fondly. 

get back 2 wat ur dng b4 jimmy 

_Bossy. I like. Would you like me to fuck you or would you like to fuck me, Dean?_

wat do u like? i want 2 do wat u want jimmy

_Good answer. Dean, I want you to spread your legs and finger your hole for me. Get your fingers wet._

Dean kicks his jeans off his ankles and spreads his legs, making himself comfortable on the bed. Stuffing two fingers in his mouth, he makes them wet and rubs them over his hole. It's been awhile since he played with his hole and it's twitching madly at the attention, sensitive from months of inactivity. He rubs around the rim, playing with it before pushing a finger in, hissing at the stretch. Wow, it's been a while. There was a time when he doesn't even need to prepare anymore. Ready to take cock anytime. Well, that was his 'glory' days. He's glad that's over and done with.

_Are you fingering yourself, Dean?_

yes 

_How many fingers?_

one

 _Add two more. I want you to feel the burn. You like a little pain, don't you Dean?_

yes!

His cock is heavy and dripping on his stomach as he presses two more fingers in, groaning low in his throat at the pain. It throbs, and he has to get used to the stretch, swallowing convulsively. The pain is intense, but it's the good kind, sharp and there, reminding him of what he's doing. It feels hot to do what this dude asks of him and knows how much the guy got off on it. He twists his fingers around, slowly scissoring himself open. He hadn't used any lube. Jimmy hadn't told him to.

_Does it hurt?_

a lil 

_Take your fingers out, Dean._

wat? no.

_Dean._

Just that one word. His name. And he hears it in Castiel's deep growl, disapproval apparent in his voice and face. Crap. He pulls his fingers out and sulks even though there's no one here to see him. He grabs his phone and quickly types, careful not to touch the device with the fingers that were just in his ass.

fine. *pout* 

_*slap you in the face with dick* Is that how you do this? With the **?_

Dean snorts loudly, making a fond exasperated face at his phone. What the hell is he doing? Sitting naked in bed laughing at some stranger's sext messages at a time when he should be on the way to work. What is this guy doing to him? Groaning, he types again. 

still hard here. gotta go to work soon. quick 

_Tsk. Tsk. So impatient. I want you to take your lube and smear them on your fingers. Make them nice and warm. Then, get onto your elbows and knees. Lay your head on your pillow. Use three fingers on yourself, Dean. Imagine it's me fucking into you. With your other hands, stroke yourself in time with your thrusts. Imagine that's my hand on your cock, Dean. And I'm thrusting into you, long hard strokes, grabbing at your hips so hard you'll still feel it hours later at work. Perhaps at work? Do you like that, Dean? Knowing people would see the bruises and know who belonged to. See your limp because you just had the fuck of your life._

Hot damn can Jimmy sext. Dean is frantically thrusting his fingers into his ass, brushing against his prostate with every shove inside. His cock is leaking, pearly white drop smearing the navy blue sheet. Fuck, he has to come home early tonight to wash the sheets before anyone sees. Imagine if Sam would ask about the stains. Actually having thoughts about his little brother while he is finger deep inside himself is not at all productive to what he's trying to achieve here. He grabs his phone, pushing buttons at random hoping the message is understood. 

need 2 come. now. 

_You're so good for me, Dean. Listening to all of my orders. Are you almost there? Because I am. And that's all thanks to you, Dean. My good boy._

Dean almost comes at those words, only grabbing the base of his cock in time. Jimmy hadn't said he could come. And he wants to be good, wants to be able to please Jimmy. Call him screwed in the head but ever since the last time he messed around with Castiel at Lisa's party, the need to be good, to obey and see how much that does to Castiel; his pleased face, his rock hard cock and knows that he's the one who made it happened. The feeling is addictive, and he knew that he would be craving for it again. 

But he never thought it would happen so soon. At least not with someone who isn't Castiel. But here Jimmy is, reviving all these kinks he'd kept hidden these past few months. It feels wrong to be doing this with someone else but the way Jimmy talks, the way he commands him, it strikes a chord in him. He swallows. It's not cheating if he's doing this with random strangers right? This is not even real life, it's online. You're just horny, Dean. Quit finding excuses. Think about Castiel, you fuck. 

That's the point! Jimmy IS Castiel in his mind. That shadowy figure had taken the shape of the blue-eyed teenager, and that's why his cock is not listening to him and is still dripping wet. Groaning in frustration, he takes his hands off his cock, sure that he won't come now after his serious mental debate; he quickly types out. He just needs to get this over with. 

jimmy pls need 

_Come, Dean. Come for me._

And he does. His whole body tenses up as he squirts ropes after ropes of come onto his bed, staining the entire thing. His ass clenches around his fingers, trying to milk them. He imagines it's Castiel's cock inside him, and how the guy would praise him. You feel so good, Dean. So tight and wet. Yes, squeezes harder. You're going to make me come. And then he would groan low and dirty into his neck, hot breaths puffing against his sweaty skin as he empties himself inside Dean. 

His dick gives one more valiant twitch at that image as the last of his orgasm is wrenched out of him. He collapses into bed, careful to avoid the wet spots breathing harshly into the pillow. His phone vibrates beside him and using his free hands, he grabs it, lifting it up above his face to stare at the lighted screen. It's another dick pic. This time, it's of Jimmy's spent dick and his come splattered belly with the text, _Look at the mess you made, Dean._

He groans, closing his eyes. 

damn jimmy. didnt know u had it in u 

_How are you feeling?_

good. awkward. blissed out. confused. 

_Why are you confused?_

y the sudden change of attitude? 

_What do you mean?_

do u do this alot? sexting with strangers on9? 

_No. You're the first person I've ever did this with._

jfc 

_I still don't understand what that means, Dean._

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST 

_I'm sorry, Dean. Did I offend you? Are you mad at me? You have to tell me if you are. I'm not good at interpreting social cues._

no jimmy. not mad. jfc = jesus fucking christ. did something happened jimmy? 

_Ah, I see. Again, I'm not Jesus. I'm just Jimmy. And why do you ask?_

u just seem off. r u alright? im sorry i shouldnt have just jump into it like that. its obvious somethings wrong. now i feel like an ass 

_Please, don't be. Nothing happened._

ur lying 

_I'm not, Dean._

r we friends? 

_Are we, Dean? We're just two strangers who met online._

i know ur fav color is green. n u know i luv pies. only my friends know that. 

Jimmy is quiet. Dean waits, staring at the green dot by his name. Then, Jimmy starts to type. 

_Nothing happened. I just felt lonely._

ur always welcome to text me jimmy. we can talk bout anything u want. u dont hav 2 u know 

_Stimulate internet sex?_

yeah that. not if u dont want 2 

_What if I want to?_

then im not stopping u. i enjoyed it. n btw ur a kinky sob 

_Kinky sob? I didn't cry, Dean._

godddd jimmy. u crack me up sometimes. sob = son of a bitch 

_Maybe you should learn how to spell next time, Dean._

haha. very funny. 

_There are tears in my eyes._

Dean rolls his eyes as he shakes his head fondly. Pushing himself out of bed, he quickly sends a text. 

hey not 2 look like a fuck n bail jerk but i really gtg. work starts in half an hour n its a 30min walk there. ill take a pic 4 u when im there if u want. reli not fucking n bailing on u here k? 

_The only fucking that happened this morning is you fucking yourself with your fingers, Dean. But thank you for letting me know. It's nice to know I'm appreciated and valued. And not just for my phone sext qualities._

That text is so full of dry sarcasm that Dean can feel it dripping out of his phone onto his hands, thick and oozing. Weirdly enough he can also imagine Jimmy's deliverance; blank face monotone. For some reason, he has Castiel's voice. He shakes his head. He has got to stop projecting Castiel onto Jimmy. They're not the same person. God, get a hold of yourself, Dean. 

someones learned how to joke ;) 

_I learned from the best._

y thank u 

_I never did say it was you._

ouch :( 

_Go to work, Dean. I'll talk to you later._

bye jimmy. tc. 

_TC?_

*sigh* tc = take care. go brush up on your internet slang while im gone ok? bb 

_I rather you not call me baby, Dean. See? I do know internet slang._

rotfl. bb = bye bye BAHAHAHAHA! 

_Oh. My apologies._

bye jimmy 

_Bye, Dean._

Dean stares at the phone smiling like a dork. He sighs, putting it away before pulling on his jeans and making sure to cover his bed with blankets. He piles a bunch of clean wash on top of the bed so no one would think to mess around with it. Satisfied with his work, he trudges down the stairs, grabs his jacket and heads out into the warm summer morning. 

It's humid. Again. At least it warm. Maybe he doesn't need his jacket. Taking it off, he holds it in his hands, cotton black t-shirt snug against his torso and jeans hanging low on his hips. His post orgasmic glow shows. His cheeks radiate color and his mood soars. The frustration from the past days dwindles and he feels light. Free.

\---

Castiel stares at the screen of his phone, a small smile on his face. He shuts down Messenger and puts his phone away. He stares down at himself. His come is still warm on his belly, and his dick is softening but still heavy on one side of his thigh. His heart is slowing down from the mind blowing orgasm he just had. Lifting up a tired hand, he wipes the come off his chest with his fingers and put them in his mouth. He sucks, closing his eyes. 

Dean is right. Castiel is a kinky son of a bitch. But what Dean doesn't know is that Castiel's only this way with him. With Dean, he feels like he can be in charge. He _is_ in charge. And Dean, he listened so well. Obeyed every one of his orders and commands with a desperation like he needed this, just as much as Castiel needed to feel in control. Especially when everything else about his life feels like a nuthouse, chaos and havoc at every corner. He never knows what to expect, never knows what lays lurking in the shadows, behind closed doors or a smiling face. 

Dean brings order back into his life. Even if it's just for the moment. He sighs. 

The same recurring nightmare woke him up again. He's back to being Lucifer's whore. He was in a hotel so he guesses it must have been a Thursday. He'd just finished up with a client, a faceless man who tied him up and fucked his ass raw. It hurt, and when it was over, rope burns decorated his wrists and ankles. He stared at it, wondering if these red rings will ever fade or if they'll be a permanent mark on his skin. Every time the bruises started to heal, new ones replaced them. 

There was a knock. His next client. He stood up and answered it. A group of men in leather jackets and crazy red-rimmed eyes stared back at him. No, it can't be. They're supposed to be dead. The man in the middle is bloody, one eye milking from it socket and a gaping hole where his nose was supposed to be. Two men flanked his side, both with identical hole in the middle of their foreheads. They're sneering at him. Two more men stood behind them, their face in shadows. No, they're dead. He killed them. 

Gordon Walker walked into the room. Castiel stumbled back. His legs gave up on him, and he fell on his ass, desperately inching backward from the approaching group of men. They're taking off their jacket and fiddling with their belts. No, please. No. This cannot be happening. He killed them. They're gone. They can't do this to him anymore. 

"What's the matter, whore? Too good for us? You just got your ass got reamed by a 60-year-old dude with saggy balls. So be an angel and spread those pretty legs, huh? I'm not going to ask twice," Gordon sneered. His voice's all wrong, twisted and wet and raspy like he's talking through a leaking windpipe. Then, they descend on him like rabid dogs in heat, grabbing at his legs and ripping his jeans off him like they're nothing, all the while he screamed and screamed and screamed. He prayed, he cried, he plead, but no one came. And they never stopped. 

They tore him to pieces, pushing their cock into him, beat him senseless until there was nothing but pain. Every single time, without fail, Gordon will pull him up against a mirror, and he will make him watch as he drove into him, watch as his cock slid in and out of him mercilessly, blood and come trickling down his thighs. Towards the end, when they've all got off on him, they made fun of him, jeered at him, mocked him, threw insults at him and then they will try to get him hard. He watched in panic as his body responded to their touch and when he came, despite how much he doesn't want to, it broke him. 

"Angel, why the sad face?" Gordon asked as Leo and Spike laughed behind him. He loomed over him, lifting one foot threateningly over his leg. He stomped down, hard. The bone broke with a nasty crack. He yelled and the next thing he saw was the dimmed light of the morning sun, red and bloody through the full-length window, sheer white curtain doing nothing to stop the glare from entering the room. The nightmare lingered even as his leg throbbed painfully. Right. He was shot. 

Waking up from nightmares like these left a mark. He felt used. Violated all over again. And he needed to regain a semblance of control. To assure himself that it was over, that he's no longer powerless. It was moments like this that he dragged himself out of bed and sought out Lucifer. The man will give him what he wanted. What he needed. A distraction as well as the notion, however misconstrue, that he called the shots. If he's going to get fucked, then it will be his decision. His say so. 

But this morning, he can't move. His leg hurt too bad, and he can't get out of bed. And the feeling of increasing helplessness mounted and mounted until he can't breathe, and it was in sheer desperation that he grabbed his phone and texted Dean. And Dean came through. He might have felt ashamed if he hadn't also felt empowered. His boldness surprised him, and it would seem that Dean felt the same way. But instead of freaking out as he had initially thought, Dean played along. And it was glorious. 

He stares at his spent cock and smiles as he remembered how hard he came. Dean is still the same generous, kind man he knew. He doesn't care who it is that needed him, be it a stranger or a friend, he's always there to give them the time of day. He is selfless with his person, be it his attention, friendship or just a listening ear. It may seem simple to anybody else but to Castiel, it meant the world. Loneliness has always been a part of him. No matter how hard he tries to shake it off, it clings to him like glue. 

Staring at his phone, he thinks that if he couldn't have Dean as Castiel Novak, maybe he could still have him as Jimmy. Dean said they were friends. And that he can come to him whenever he wanted to talk or if he felt like it, have phone sex. Are they 'Friends with Benefits: The online version'? Either way, he can work with that. He can be Jimmy. The boy he used to be before meeting Lucifer. The shy wallflower; an introvert with a dry sense of humor. Except, instead of the wide-eyed virgin, Jimmy is a kinky son of a bitch. 

Yes, he can tap into that. Whether it had been a conscious decision from the start, he can’t face Dean as _him_. Castiel Novak. There’s too much hurt there, too much unresolved issues. Feelings that he can’t tap into because if he does he fears he might start to hate. Let all the pain, anguish and heartbreak turn him bitter. Angry. Spiteful. Dean broke his heart and he's not really to face it. Not ready to open the wound. 

It feels safer donning Jimmy’s skin, his uncomplicated background, his clean slate and his non-history with Dean. It’s easier to separate his feelings then. He’s Jimmy. They met online. They’re friends with benefits but friends nonetheless. He can work with this. And he still gets to keep Dean's presence in his life. 

He stares at the mess on his stomach. Next time, he'll have Dean take a picture of his release. His breath grows heavy at the thought, pupil dilated. Next time. There _is_ going to be a next time. The corner of his lips twitch up, and he can't help the smile spreading across his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm just horny when I wrote this. Enjoy the porn.


	7. Chapter 7

He's warm. Too warm. Lucifer blinks one eye open. The ceiling stares back at him. Still too warm. He tries to move but finds that something heavy is lying on top of him. He glances down. There's an arm on his chest. His eyes trail down further to the lump under the blanket somewhere above his thighs. He turns his head to his side and stops breathing. Michael is sleeping beside him, face buried in the pillow, only part of his face and thick dark hair visible. The man is warm. Very warm. 

Startled, he pushes himself up, lifting the arm off him and pushes Michael onto his back. He's sweaty; the t-shirt drenched in patches. Lucifer puts a hand on his forehead. He's still feverish, not as bad as last night but not encouraging. He shakes Michael's shoulder, trying to wake him up. The man's face twitches a little, and a soft moan escapes him. The sound goes straight to his dick. Which is already half hard from his morning wood. Not the time, Lucifer.

"Michael," he calls, shaking him harder. "Wake up."

Michael moans again, eyebrows furrowing. His breathing is heavy and shallow. Lucifer slaps his face gently. He's starting to get worried. Are there more side effects from the poison? The antivenin should have gotten rid of all traces of the poison in his blood. He presses his palm to Michael's forehead, pushing the sweaty strands back. "Michael," he calls loudly, more urgent. The man's eyelids flutter and a moment later, he opens his eyes, thank God. 

Bright liquid pools stare back at him, the pupils widening. Michael stays like this for a moment, blinking slowly before his eyes widen. Jolting upright like he'd been electrocuted, he scrambles up the bed, only narrowly avoiding a collision between his head and Lucifer's nose.

"What are you doing?" he grumbles. "It's not okay to wake people up like that. You almost gave me a heart attack!" Michael places a hand over his chest, frowning hard at him. 

"Oh, excuse me for trying to see if you're alright. You still have a fever by the way. Thanks for caring, Luke."

Michael frowns harder at that. He places his own hand on his forehead. Lucifer sits up straighter in bed, crossing his legs in front of him. He stares at the man a feet away from him. Michael looks slightly flushed, probably from the fever and his hair is damp. Actually, he looks really frigging hot right now. The reddish tint makes him looks debauched like he'd just had many rounds of urgent hot sex. His bedhead doesn't make the illusion any harder to imagine. And the fact that he's wearing Lucifer's clothes, the sight is doing a lot of thing to his libido. 

He grabs his pillow and subtly places it on top of his crotch. He's already supporting a morning wood. Doesn't need to antagonize the situation further. "How are you feeling?" he asks instead. 

"Sore."

"Told you we should have used lube."

Michael shoots one of his more fearsome glare at him, and he pretends to catch it, giving it a kiss before mimicking a 3-pointer basketball shot in mid-air. Michael's glare turns more vicious. "Seriously, though, if you don't stop staring at me like that, I'm going to think you want me to do something kinky as shit to you." Lucifer gives him a come-hither look.

"I'm dealing with a child," Michael mumbles under his breath as he looks away. 

"Lucky for you I'm a full grown adult male or else what we did would have been illegal."

"Luke! We didn't do anything! Or were you dreaming shit up?"

"Says you," he winks before trailing his eyes down meaningfully. Michael's eyes widen as he slowly looks down. Swallowing convulsively, he peeks under the covers. He has such a scared look on his face that Lucifer is having a hard time keeping a straight face. 

"Very funny, Luke." 

He bursts out laughing. “Got you to look, didn’t I?” he argues, throwing the pillow aside and getting out of bed. He walks to the bathroom still laughing as he pours a glass of cold water from the tap. When he walks back out with it, he passes the glass to Michael. "Drink up," he says. Michael stares at the glass for awhile before taking it, gulping down mouthfuls of water before handing the empty glass back to him. "You're confined to bed duties until I say otherwise. And that means you lie your ass back down in bed and look pretty," he demands when Michael moves to get up. 

"I need to pee," he says ignoring him completely as he steps past him towards the bathroom. 

"Oh. Okay. But after that, you're getting back in bed."

Michael doesn't bother answering, instead just closes the bathroom door behind him. Lucifer glares at it, half tempted to stride right in. Screw privacy. He will not be ignored. But he did no such thing. What he does do is go out and make breakfast. He puts a few slices of bacon in the pan to sizzle and in the meantime, he makes toasts. Opening the fridge, he takes out the carton of orange juice and fills up three glasses. Once the bacon is done, he puts a small portion on the plate beside the toasts and grabbing a glass of juice heads in the direction of Castiel's room.

"Good morning, Vietnam! It’s time for breakfast," he announces as he throws the door open. He freezes at the doorway, food and juice in hand as his eyebrows disappear into his hair. "O-kay. Not the welcome I was expecting but is there something you want from me that you're hinting very unsubtly might I add?" 

Castiel is lying in bed, shirtless with his jeans around his thighs staring out the open window. When he sees him at the door, Castiel grabs the blankets to cover himself, face blushing a flaming red. "No," he growls, voice low and gravelly. 

"Well, looks like someone had fun." He strides in passing the plate to the still flushing teenager. Castiel takes it quietly, not looking him in the eyes. "It's okay. We all have some me-time once in awhile. It's a very normal healthy thing to do. You don't have to be ashamed about it. Though, I'm a little disappointed you didn't invite me to the party."

Castiel flashes him an annoyed look. "How's the leg?" he asks, sitting on the edge of the bed beside the boy. 

"It hurts." 

"Of course, it does. I'll get you some pain meds in a bit."

Castiel nods, taking a sip of his orange juice. "How's Michael?" he asks.

"He's awake and grouchy as usual. I gave him my bed for the night. You'd think he'll be a bit more grateful," he complains. 

Castiel just gives him this meaningful look that he really hates. He rolls his eyes. "He still has a fever. I have to interrogate the bitch later. Just to be sure there aren't any permanent damage. She better hope not because if something were to happen to Michael-" he growls at the back of his throat.

"You should just tell him how you feel, Luci."

"And what is that?"

Castiel doesn't answer him, just sits there and bites into his toast. "You can't ignore it forever."

He sighs. "It's not that simple, Cassie. Michael is- Well, he's troubled."

"Who isn't?"

"I don't know. I'll think about it. But as of the moment, eat. Sleep. And rest. That's your job for the day. I'll see if I can find you a crutch. Just in case you need to go to the toilet. Do you need to go now?" he asks. Castiel shakes his head. "Alright, if you need anything, just call. I'll be just down the hall."

Standing up, he walks back to the kitchen, divides the remaining bacon and toasts onto two plates and grabs the two glasses of juice and crabwalks his way down the hall back to his room. He's pretty proud of his waitressing skills; it's not easy balancing two plates and two glass of juice with two hands, okay? Michael is still not back from the bathroom. Frowning, he lays the food down on the bedside table and approaches the door. He presses his ear against the wood and listens.

Nothing. Feeling unsettled, he knocks. "Everything okay in there?" he calls.

He hears a flush from inside and a moment later, Michael walks out. He looks frustrated and slightly shamefaced. "What? Something happened?" he asks.

"You don't want to know," is all the answer he gets before Michael climbs back into bed, pulling the cover around himself and looking very much like a sulking sick child. 

"Well, try me," he says annoyed. 

"I can't pee," Michael answers so softly at first, he thought he heard wrong. 

"I'm sorry?"

"I can't pee," he repeats, glaring at Lucifer angrily.

He stares at the man in his bed, at the crumpled shirt, messy head and blazing blue eyes and he tries. He really did. The ugly snorts burst out of him anyway. Very unattractively might he adds; spits flying and he almost hacks up a lung as he coughs and splutters. "Yeah yeah, laugh away. I know you would do that," Michael huffs, crossing his arms in front of his chest. 

"I'm sorry," he cries, wiping tears from his eyes. "But that's just-" He has to break off to laugh some more, holding his stomach. When he finally manages to calm down somewhat, he wheezes out. "It might be the side effect of the poison. It should go over soon. Don't worry. In the meantime, though, do you need me to hold your wee-wee?" He bursts out into another peal of laughter.

"You're a jerk you know that," Michael grumbles even as he bites into the breakfast that _he_ made.

"A jerk that made you breakfast, jerk," he shoots back.

"How many times did I cook for you?" Michael asks indignantly. "About time you return the favor."

"It's different. You love cooking. You do it because you like it. I hate cooking. I do it because I care about you, and I don't want you to have to get out of bed because honestly you look like a helpless baby right now." It's out before he can even think much about it. Granted, it's a backhanded comment, but still- He closes his mouth, determined not to look away when Michael looks up, blue eyes boring into him. There's a soft look on his face, his usual standoffishness, and icy demeanor melt away. 

"Thank you," he says, nodding at the plate in his hand. "It's good," he adds, blue eyes wide and earnest.

"Thank you and it's good? That's all the compliments you can come up with after putting me through _all_ that? Jesus, Michael. I expect at least an I-heart-you," he says, mimicking a heart shape over his chest, rolling his eyes in the process before grabbing his own plate and plops down beside the frowning man. He crosses his legs in front of him and starts eating, savoring the salty bacon flavor in his mouth. The side of his face prickles, the ultimate sign that Michael is again fixing him with one of his piercing I-can-see-into-your-soul gazes.

Sighing, he asks, "What?" not bothering to look at the man by his side. 

"There's no one in the world I care more than you, Luke. You know that."

A hot flush spread like wildfire over his face and down his neck. He hopes he's not blushing though he could feel the warmth like the scorching sun on his skin. He bites angrily into his toast, trying to control his facial muscles into not betraying how worked up he is by Michael's statement. It is a statement. The way he said it, so abrupt, so blunt, so _Michael_. God, who does that? "Shut up," he mutters, still not looking at the man.

He can hear rather than see the physical frown on Michael's face. "You wanted acknowledgment for your efforts. I gave that to you. Yet, you complained. So I told you how I felt about you. Still, you remain unhappy. Congratulations. You've successfully lost me," he argues, body stiff and stilted beside him. Lucifer can feel the frustration radiating off the man in waves, but he's too petty to make this any easier for him.

"I'm as unpredictable as it comes, Michael. Learn to deal with that."

"I can see that," the man grumbles, digging into his toast. 

Lucifer finally looks to his side. Michael is bending over the plate, head right on top, biting carefully as if trying not to spill the crust onto the bed. The sight threatens to put a stupid look on his face, and it takes all of his controls not to look like a complete idiot in love. Heart eyes, goofy smile, fond expression and a crazily beating heart; the whole nine yards. 

Michael looks completely adorable in his old shirt, the material so thin it hangs limply on his strong shoulders. His perfect hair is a mess, falling over his intense eyes that so often stares down the most dangerous man and see the same look given to the mundane task in front of him. It seems so surreal, and the fact that they're both having breakfast in bed makes it even more bizarre. Lucifer can't help but feel very domesticated. 

Michael looks up then; one brow furrows into a silent question. Lucifer just shrugs and continues eating his toast, not taking his eyes off the man. Michael stares back for awhile, confused before he starts to get a little awkward and uncomfortable and a few seconds later, his eyes drop down to his plate. His movement is stilted, and his back is stiff, straight as a ramrod even as his eyes flick from Lucifer's knees to his chest, never venturing higher than his neck.

"Quit staring," he grumbles. "What? Is there something on my face?"

Lucifer puts his empty plate on the floor beside the bed and scoots closer. Michael tense up immediately. He wants to laugh at how easy it is to make the man uncomfortable; he looks so cute like a little-lost puppy, and Lucifer is enjoying watching him fidget and twitch way too much to stop. He brushes the hair from Michael's forehead. The man stills, eyes staring fixedly at the lowered plate in his hands. Lucifer tries to contain the smirk he can feel forming at the corner of his lips. 

He slides his hand over Michael's forehead, feeling his temperature. He's warm but not dangerously so anymore, and the heat could be contributed to the fact that the top of his cheeks are tinged red. "Fever is still there. I'm going to get you some water and pills then you can go back to sleep."

"Is that an order?" Michael retorts.

"Only if you want it to be, sweetheart," he shoots back, using his annoying coy voice. 

"What's got into you?" Michael asks exasperated, staring at him with wide eyes. 

"That's what you get for scaring me, Michael. I get clingy. Remember that the next time you decided you wanted to die on me," he says dryly. Michael opens his mouth to argue, but he puts a finger up to silent him. Their skin doesn't touch, but he's near enough to feel Michael's warm breath puffing on his skin. "You still haven't answered my question."

Michael frowns. "What question?"

"Are you still a virgin?" he teases.

The man's whole demeanor changes. He flushes furiously, blue eyes blazing as he pulls back, placing the plate on the side table and snuggling under the covers, pulling it up over his head and mutters, "Go away. Let me sleep in peace."

Staring at the lump under the blankets, Lucifer blinks. He was joking about the whole virgin thing but seeing how Michael reacted to the question, could it actually be true? Could it be possible that the 27-year-old man in front of him is a virgin? But how is that possible? And how virgin is _virgin_? He can cross out penetrative sex. But what about first base, second base stuff? Like, have Michael ever had a handjob before? A blowjob? Oh god, has anyone ever kiss those soft plum lips before?

Technically, he did. When he was giving the man mouth to mouth. But well, he wasn't so much into it as he was trying to resuscitate Michael. And the man hadn't responded. It doesn't count. But Christ, what are the odds? 

So many thoughts and questions run through his head, one after the other and yet he can't make himself speak. He just can't picture that hot man in his bed is an actual blushing virgin. No. That's impossible. His heart is beating at such a rapid pace he wonders how Michael doesn't hear it. If Michael is indeed a virgin then- 

A sense of possessiveness so powerful threatens to engulf him. He grabs the covers and tries to pull it off, but Michael is clutching at it tight like he's expecting Lucifer to react like this. God, that man really does know him. He pushes up onto his knees, struggling with covers, almost half straddling Michael's legs. "You're not a virgin. Cmon, Michael. You just can't be!" he yells as he gives the blanket a huge tug. 

"Go away! I need to rest!" comes Michael's muffled reply. He's yelling too Lucifer can tell but with his face squashed between the sheets and pillow, it's no wonder he comes off weak. Ignoring his protest, Lucifer continues to tug at the offending material, needing confirmation too bad to care. 

"No, you can't throw a bomb like that and expect it not to explode!"

"What the-?! Whether or not I'm a virgin has nothing to do with you! Get off me!" the man yells, kicking out under the blankets. He catches Lucifer in the stomach causing him to bend over in pain. Growling, he climbs back on top, settling heavily onto Michael's thighs, so he got the man pinned down. He tries to grab his arms unseeingly because he's still hiding under the fucking covers lashing out like a wild animal. 

"I'm not letting you go until you tell me!" he growls.

"Get off!" Michael yells trying to buck him off. 

Lucifer finally gets a hold of Michael's arms and slams them down onto the bed. Huffing and puffing he uses his teeth to bite the sheets and pulls it down. Michael's flushing face comes into view. He's panting, eyes almost closed by how hard he's glaring at him, still struggling against his firm grip. Lucifer spits out the covers, not caring that he left a huge saliva stain on it and glowers down at Michael. They suddenly find themselves in a stare off. First one to break eye contact loses.

It would have been okay if only his situation isn't so awkward. Lucifer is lying half on top of the other man, and he could feel all the part where they're touching, firm bodies pressing hard against one another. Their position is sparking all sort of inappropriate thoughts, and it's going to get very uncomfortable very fast. Even through the thick sheets, he can feel Michael's body warmth radiating out from under him between his thighs. He gulps. Don't you dare come out, don't you dare come out, he repeats to himself, still keeping eye contact with those blazing azure eyes below him.

Fuck. It came out.

Michael's glare turns into a frown and then he breaks eye contact to glance down. Lucifer can feel the flames on his face, but he's going to ignore it. Michael freezes. "Are you poking me with your penis?" he asks bluntly still staring down at where they're connected.

"Morning wood. Ignore it. Answer my question."

Michael's face turns red as he flicks his eyes up. "This is so inappropriate, Luke. Get off me."

"Why? Are you uncomfortable?"

"Of course, I'm uncomfortable! What do you think?" he yells indignantly. 

"Is it because you've never felt a man's cock poking you before?" Michael's face turns an even darker shade of red, almost maroon now. "What's the furthest you ever went? It doesn't matter if it's man, woman, transvestite or whatever. How far?" he asks unable to stop the questions from spilling out. He needs to know.

Michael glares at him, jaw twitching before he looks away, sullen but defeated. Lucifer cheers silently and gives himself a mental pat on the back. "I've never had sex before, okay? Are you happy now? Can you get off me because this is making me very uncomfortable as you can very well understand," he scowls. 

"How is that possible?" Lucifer asks, eyes wide with bewilderment. "I'm sure people have propositioned you before. I mean, look at you!" he expresses, making a conspicuous effort at checking the man out. His eyes trail from his face to his collar bone down his chest to where they're still touching. His cock is poking at the front of his sweats obscenely, and he jerks his eyes back to Michael's face. "You're hot."

"Stop saying that."

"It's the truth. I would tap you anytime any day."

Michael blushes harder at that and averts eye contact. He glares at Lucifer's chest muttering. "I thought you're not that easy. Dinner first. A few dates. Then, sex. What happened to that?"

"Are you saying yes? To sex? With me?" Lucifer's heart almost burst out of his chest; it's beating so hard. He feels warm all over, and he's sure his pupils are dilated as all hell. Fuck. He's so obvious. Tone it down you idiot!

"What? No! Get off!" Michael starts to struggle again, bucking and pushing up from the bed. It just serves to make him harder, the friction against his cock unbearable. His t-shirt is riding up, and Lucifer sees a flash of skin and muscles working there and it's too much. He lets go of Michael and in the split second when he realizes he's free, Michael stops moving, just stares up at him stunned. He must think Lucifer is a massive jerk if his stopping put that bewildered look on his face. 

Lucifer climbs off him and settles on the sturdy mattress beside him. He grabs the pillow to cover his boner. "I still can't believe you're a virgin," he says simply. 

Michael closes his eyes and put an arm over his face. "You know why. You've seen it. Stop making a big deal out of it."

Lucifer frowns. What is Michael talking about? Then, he remembers. Fuck. "You're a virgin because of the mark on your penis?" he asks shocked.

Michael removes his arm and scowls at him. "It's not that surprising, Luke."

"I could care less about that. Apart from the fact that I would like to skin the person who did that to you alive. They're dead, right? You killed them?" 

Michael just stares at him, unblinking, gaze intense with so many unsaid words. Words Lucifer doesn't know how to decipher or begin to interpret. It's like Michael is trying to read him but is unsure of what he sees. After a moment, Michael turns his face to stare at the ceiling a small exhale escapes him. He stares up at the wooden beams as he answers, "No. She's still alive."

"It's a she?"

Michael nods. 

"Wow, that one fucked up bitch. What? Did you cheat on her or something?" He smacks himself in the head. "Of course not. You're still a fricking virgin. What did you do?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Lucifer. Can we please drop this?" he asks, a soft plea in his tone. Lucifer stares at his profile for a moment. There's a certain sadness about him. The dullness in his eyes. The resigned tilt of his lips. The defeated slump of his shoulders. The way he holds himself. It looks like he's trying to get the bed to swallow him whole. Michael's still staring ahead like he's remembering something he rather not because then he closes his eyes and just breathes.

"Does this have something to do with what you muttered last night?"

Michael opens his eyes and frowns at him, a confused look on his face. "What did I said last night?"

"You keep saying you're sorry. And begged for someone to stop."

Michael's face pales and for a moment, he thought the man is going to faint. The blood drains from his face so fast he looks like a ghost. His hand jerks in an aborted movement as he reaches out to comfort him but stops when Michael flinches. His dark hair is brushing over his eyes, casting them in shadows and the way he holds his head, it's like he's trying to hide behind them. Even so, Lucifer sees the tears pooling there. The steel blue bright even as the color continues to dull. 

"Everyone deserves to have something they can keep to themselves, Luke. I deserve that too. I hope you can respect that," he says, his voice dull and monotonous. Tired. 

Lucifer swallows. He hates seeing Michael like this. Clenching his jaws, he speaks. "Fine. But Michael-" He pauses waiting for the man to look at him. When he did, Lucifer continues. "You're not ugly. Or hideous. You're just a man with a past. Like everyone else. With or without the mark, I still think you're hot," he jokes, smirking. 

Michael huffs out a laugh at that, eyes lowered. "Thank you," he murmurs. "Now go away before I kick you out the bed," he grumbles, turning over and pulling the covers up to his chin. 

"FYI, it's my bed," he says even as he moves to the side, getting to his feet. "I'll come and check on you in a few hours. Get some rest." Michael doesn't answer, snuggling lower into the blankets. A smile tugs at the corner of Lucifer's lips as he stares at the small tuft of hair poking out. He shakes his head and exits the room, closing the door softly behind him. 

Lucifer walks to the other side of the apartment. As he approaches the door where Meg was in, he slows. Taking a deep breath, he opens the door and enters just in time to catch the tail end of Meg's shouts. A cold smirk twists his face into something eerie and preternatural. "Scream all you want, Meg. The apartment is sound proof. It's pretty stupid of you to venture into the wolf's nest without backup. Where's old Death?"

Meg scowls at him; hands fisted in front of her. Then, she flicks her dark curly hair back, a sly smile on her lips. "Thanks for patching me up," she drawls. "Great handiwork. Can't do it better myself. Though, I would prefer if you cover me back up after," she says, nodding to her ripped shirt, her lacy violet bra showing. "I'm a good girl after all."

Smiling, he approaches her before leaning down right into her personal space, both hands on the back of the chair beside her head. "I bet. Tell me, how many times did Death fucked you and called you just that? Yes, Daddy is proud," he breathes down her face. The corner of her eye twitches before her smile is back. She stares up at him challengingly, and if looks can kill, he'll be dead from how icy her stare is. The mascara lining her eyes are smeared. She looks deadly.

"I enjoyed every fuck," she says emphasizing the word 'enjoyed'. "No one can fuck me harder or better than Father." She smiles, lips spreading wide across her heart-shaped face. A dimple starts to form on one side of her cheek. "Mhm, it gets me wet just thinking about it."

"But then again with an appetite like yours, Daddy isn't enough to please you, is he? Is that why Death passed you around like a cheap whore?"

At this, Meg's face twisted into something ugly, her mouth thinned and eyes narrowing into slits. "Fuck off," she growls. 

"I will. If you tell me what I needed to know."

"Oh cut the bullshit. You want to know who sent me. Right? Well, guess what. The bullseye was at the back of your head for a long time. Only those living off the grid or have a stick so far up their asses they can't see the carrot dangling all over the network. You're lucky you went MIA when you did, or you wouldn't be breathing right now. Come to think of it- you probably won't be for long. Not with your fifteen minutes of fame. Every killer in the industry will be out looking for your perky ass."

Lucifer considers her words. She's referring to Tor network, the same thing Finnick had mentioned before he died. Most freelancers work via the network, but a larger part, those like Naomi's organization and people like Michael doesn't recruit or find jobs from it, not with the loyalty clause in their contracts. Also, it's not secure. You never know who's behind a hit, it could be special forces, FBI, INTERPOL, secret services; Lucifer had put out a few feelers himself during his stint with the government. Plus, you'll never know if you'll be getting paid. 

Of course, there are ways to go around it. Do your research and hack until the program coughs up a name or an account number. But yes, Tor usually cater for freelancers. And these people are the most dangerous. For one, they answer to no one but themselves. Most of them are volatile and unpredictable, one of the main reason they're not ideal employees. At least, that’s true for the psychos. The ones that actually stood a chance at killing him because like Finnick, there are plenty of cowards and frankly plain lousy killers in their midst.

"How did you find us?"

"Funny you should ask. How did you end up with good old Michael? It's hard to picture the two of you together. Tell me, how do you stand that man's anal retentive personality? Talk about polar opposites. How does _he_ stands _you_?" Meg asks eyebrows arched so high she's in danger of losing them. 

"Just answer the question, Meg."

"You're no fun," she pouts rolling her eyes. "I'm not often in Chicago but when I am, let me tell you, the people here are incredibly friendly. I just can't get enough of them here." Something about the way she says it sounds off. Her expression is stony, and her smile forced. Those dark eyes that were shining with amusement minutes before dulls. "I was up at my favorite spot. Just contemplating life you know. Wonder what it's like to fly," she laughs a soft sound.

"Guess who came tearing around the corner? Little boy lost. His eyes are just as blue as they look on tv, even bluer in real life. I've never seen eyes like that. So much sadness, so much sorrow. So lost." She sounds sad then she perks up. "I knew he has got to know where you are." 

"So you're saying it's just pure coincidence?"

"That does happen you know."

"Not to people like us."

Meg shrugs. "That's the truth."

"Who knows you're here?" he asks nodding vaguely to their surroundings. 

"I can tell you one thing. Michael got taste. Never knew he lived in Chicago though. And a penthouse at that. Wow, remind me again why I didn't join an agency?" 

"You're not making a good case for yourself here." He doesn't like that Michael's living quarter is exposed. It's his sanctuary. His home for years and years. And now he might need to relocate. The thought doesn't sit well with him.

He knows Michael is attached to the place, can see the man's touch everywhere. The design, the look, the feel, everything says Michael. When he's on the job, he always takes extreme measure to keep the location of his home a secret. Never came back here directly after a case, staying at random motels for a week before coming home. Even then, he'd installed a hidden passageway between the car park in the building next door to the basement of this building so that he could leave and enter without anyone ever seeing him. 

Meg smiles, a flirtatious look in her eyes. "I'm not stupid. Why should I answer that?"

"Because if you don't I'm going to get my hands dirty and you're going to be in a world of pain blah blah blah so why not we skip the chit-chat and get straight to the point?"

Meg huffs unbelievably and shakes her head, glancing to the side, tongue out to lick at the corner of her lips. "Father knows I'm in Chicago. He sent me here after all. But he doesn't know about you if that's what you're asking."

Frowning, he asks. "Why is that?" Meg shakes her head a mirthless smile on her face, eyes lowered and to one side. A smirk begins to tug at the corner of his lips. "I see. Turns out Daddy's girl isn't so good after all."

"Seriously, go fuck yourself. I'm sure you have a dildo stuffed here somewhere," Meg sneers. 

"Is someone getting tired of being daddy's little fuck toy? Or is it because daddy always sent you away to strange men? Feeling sad that daddy doesn’t love you enough?" Lucifer edges, knowing just where her sore spots are. Everyone in the business knows. It's their job to know. Death and his little shadow Meg. The 'invisible' duo until they're in your line of sight. They're both freelancer, silent killers often hired for their 'accidental' murders. 

"That's courageous of you. But do you know what happens to those who double-crossed Death? They all ended up dead." Meg just stares at him like he's dumb or she's bored, head tilted to one side. Narrowing his eyes, he finally asks the question that's been bugging him for a while. 

"Are they any permanent side effects from the poison you used?" 

Meg arches one eyebrow up in surprise. "Why? Is Michael not up yet?" she asks in a condescending tone. 

"I don't like to play games, and you're testing my patience. I'm going to ask one more time and for the devil's sake, just answer the question. Will Michael be fully recovered? And by fully recovered I mean regains all his normal bodily function as well as mental capacity. And trust me, there's a correct answer."

Meg's smile grows wider. She stares at him like she had just discovered gold, eyes gleaming with fascination. "You like Michael," she says matter-of-factly. "I thought it was Castiel that you're fucking. Huh," she pauses considering. "Interesting. You're screwing one when you rather be doing the other. That must suck. Mostly for Castiel. People like you can go right to hell," she spits. 

"Just answer the question, Meg. I'm not in the mood to torture today."

Meg rolls her eyes. "The poison was in his system for almost the full two hours. It will take awhile to flush it out. He'll be fine in a week or two."

"A week or two?!" he yells, shocked.

"Calm your tits. He's not going to die or get handicapped. Take that as a bonus. He’ll probably be weak and tired. Maybe a little disoriented or confused at times. He could be seeing things that aren't there, slight hallucination. His dick probably won't be showing much interest, but I doubt that will stop you. Taking advantage of the weak and vulnerable is kind of your specialty, isn't it? So long as he has a hole to put your dick in, it doesn't matter if he's up for it. You just take it," she spits. 

It takes a lot not to slap her in the face. Or punch her lights out. But he refrains, standing up and taking a step back. "I deserved that." Meg frowns, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "I did some bad things in the past. I'm not going to deny it. Nor am I going to deny ever having to do that again. I'm not a good person. Never said I was. Don't think I'll ever be. I mean, I killed for a living. And I torture if I have to. I still fuck Castiel because who the fuck knows. But I try."

"Oh, spare me the pity the devil talk. I've heard every version of it." Meg rolls her eyes. 

Lucifer smiles and spreads his arms wide. "Yes, I'm the devil alright. Once a hero of the country. Now the wanted man. The fallen angel." 

"Oh, stop the dramatics. It looks horrible on you," she gags.

"I'm the bad guy. Bad guys are all about the theatrics, the long monologs before they kill," he pauses leaning closer. "So the question remains, to kill or not to kill?" They stare at each other, dark mascara-smudged eyes against steel blue ones. "Give me one good reason I should keep you alive."

Meg smirks. "Easy," she drawls. "Father knows who holds the million dollar contract."

Time stands still. Lucifer narrows his eyes. "How do I know you're not saying that so that I'll spare you?"

"You know Father. He's always in the background. Invisible. But always listening. He knows people. And people knows things. And he is interested in the hit. A million dollar. Who wouldn't?"

"So he's in on it too?"

Meg nods. "Yes. When the rumors first started, he was dismissive. No one in their right mind would put that kind of money up. Not on the net anyway. But then the rumors started to get real. The cookie crumbs were legit. That sparked Father's interest. But you were a ghost. It wasn't worth his effort. But then half a year ago, word got out that Michael killed you. Someone with an agency in on a nameless hit. That was fun to watch. Of course, Naomi never did manage to produce the body, did she? Now I see why," she smirks.

"In any case, Father knew it was real. He did some digging himself."

Lucifer has been pacing the room during Meg's spiel and now he's standing in front of the door, back to her. He's thinking hard. Meg's story seems valid. There are head and tail to it. But then again, how plausible is it that Death of all people figured out who's behind this? Turning around, he leans back against the door legs crossed at the ankles in front of him. "Let's say Death did know. But how do _you_ know that? I doubt he told you what he found."

"I'm a good fuck," she shrugs. "When we're cuddling and basking in the afterglow of a particularly taxing session, he gets all chatty. Father likes to brag. He mentioned the million dollar hit. At that time, I didn't even know he was still going for it. But apparently, he was. A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend," here she stops to give him a cheeky smile, "who is a hacker managed to locate the IP address. The exact location is still unknown, but there's one thing we knew for sure- The hit originated from Europe. And there's someone in Europe that Father knows is very interested in you." 

"Who?"

"Well, he didn't tell me that," Meg snarks rolling her eyes. 

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I'm tired of spreading my legs and taking it like the good little whore that I am. I need a way out. And you, you need your freedom back. I'd say we should work together, but that's your call."

"What are you suggesting?"

"You won't like it."

"Try me."

"I take you back to Father. As a gift."

Lucifer narrows his eyes. "What makes you think he wouldn't kill me on the spot?"

"Haven't you heard? Ever since Michael's failed attempt on you, there's a change to the clause. Proof of dead is no longer the prerequisite for the million dollars. They want you. Devastatingly injured if necessary but alive."

Lucifer is quiet for a moment. Whoever is behind this is really out for his skin. He stares at the brunette in front of him, at the sly smile on her face and dark eyes. Can he trust Meg? No. But then again, she is right. He needs to get to the roots of the problem, or he'll never find peace. And those around him will be in danger. Michael almost died. Who's to say the next attempts wouldn't be deadly? 

He could try holing up in the apartment until Michael is back on his feet to figure it out together. If Death could hack into the network, so could Michael. He has a degree in Computer Science after all. And the man has the analytical skills of a droid. There's no way Death could figure it out and Michael can't. The only problem is, who knows how long it will take Michael to recover? It isn't safe here. Not when Meg had already found the place, and if she goes missing for long enough, Death is sure to notice. 

No. He needs to get rid of the threat fast. Turning the doorknob, he falls back and walks out the door, throwing an, "I'll think about it," over his shoulder. He hears Meg's drawled out, "Don't take too long sweetheart," before the door shuts out all noise from inside. Expelling a tired exhale, he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. Michael will not be happy with this.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean is humming under the hood of yet another car, hands dirty and greasy, sweat sticking to his face and back and he never felt more at home. Ash is in the back somewhere doing whatever it is he does with his laptop. For an owner, he's pretty chill about the business so long as he has someone to work the engines and mans the phone. If anyone were to walk in, it would seem like he owns the place rather than the computer junkie in the backroom. Dean often wonders how the man survived before he came along. He probably hired another sucker. 

He's still in a good mood after his morning orgasms. He needed that. The past few months had been tough. The first few weeks he couldn't look Bobby in the eyes. Not when he knew what he'd done, what he'd been. When he was still in Lawrence, it was different. He didn't know anybody. Yes, he had his teachers, classmates but they were almost strangers to him. He doesn't care what they think of him. The only people he cared about was Sam and thank god he's still too young to understand exactly what happened. The full ugliness of it. 

But Bobby’s not a stranger. He’s someone Dean looked up to, respected and thought of as family. Bobby was family. The man knew him since he was five years old, had been to his following birthday parties, festivities, and everything. He was his dad’s best friend and brother-in-arm. He was even there when Sam was born. Bobby was someone from _before_. 

When Dean knew Bobby was at the station, he went into a full blown panic. He almost retracted every statement he gave to the police. Obstruction of justice be damn. Because fucking hell, he was ashamed. He yelled at Gabriel not to bring Bobby in. That he didn’t want to see the man. Because he _can’t!_ Bobby can’t know what he’d become.

John didn’t raise his kids to be treated and used like this. And then Dean almost had a heart attack. Dad. He will know. He’s going to find out. What will he say? Fear struck him then and struck him good. He thinks he was catatonic for a while because then Bobby was there. His familiar face broke him. He cried. And didn’t stop crying. To this day, they still pretend like that never happened. 

After his breakdown, he avoided Bobby, choosing instead to hide out with Gabriel, who had taken a much more handleable approach to Dean's whole situation. He hadn't acted like Dean is a fragile glass instead picked and prodded at him like a nuisance fly, bustling in and out of the hotel room they were staying at the time. Gabriel said he hadn't minded Dean's company, and thought it was a smart idea considering who they were up against. Men like Crowley and Azazel will resort to drastic measure when desperate. He also liked to needle Dean about Lucifer. 

He wonders what it is about the guy that everyone seemed so fascinated about. He's not jealous. Of course not. It doesn't matter that Lucifer was Castiel's first love or that he chose to run away with the man. No, that was his fault. Actually, he should stop thinking about it because it's draining his good mood. Not that he never want to think of Castiel, he just doesn't want to think of Lucifer. That man ruined both their lives.

Fuck, even when he finally got used to being around Bobby, it took awhile before he was comfortable enough to answer more than a yes and no. Bless the old man; he wasn't pushy. He didn’t smother Dean with questions. He didn’t ask what happened or worse, tried to talk or pitied him. He was just there. A constant presence. Solid and reliable. 

It turned out that's all Dean needed to be at ease again. Comfort is the feeling of familiarity. If Bobby never mentions it, Dean can keep pretending. If he can keep pretending, he's good. So bad things happened. It's in the past. End of story. He doesn't need to talk about it. He doesn’t need to confront it. He doesn’t need to take it into the open and hash out his feelings like in kindergarten. He's okay with the way things are.

Despite the trial, he graduated. Bobby and Sam were at his graduation day. It's all very domestic. He wore a cape and everything. For a moment there, he's actually proud of himself. He did it. Despite the constant moving, the hellish month before the final exams, he made it. His grades weren't scholarship worthy, but if he does intend to go to college, he might still stand a chance. Which leaves him with the dilemma of should he or should he not? There's Sam to think about. He knows that he has Bobby now, but it still feels wrong to leave Sam behind. Maybe he could find something close by? But then, what about the money? He doesn't want to use any more of Bobby's money than he already is. No. If he's going to college, he's getting the funds on his own.

Then comes the big question. What does he want to do? He never thought further than wanting a good job so that he could support his little brother. He always thought he'll end up in business, Marketing maybe and wears monkey suits to high rise building. Just the thought of it makes his stomach hurts. But that's where the big bucks lie. Now, though, is it possible for him to choose something he actually wants to do? He loves cars, but he doesn't see himself as a mechanic for the long haul. A hobby maybe but not an occupation. What does he want to do with his life? 

His thought strays. Castiel would probably be a teacher or something. He smirks, picturing the blue-eyed boy with horn-rimmed glass and nerdy sweater standing in front of a class. He would take that class, hands down. Or maybe he would be a nature buff like some Ph.D. person who study meteorology or the earth or what not. A holy tax accountant? He can dig the look. Castiel already talks so formally, imagine him talking about number and taxes in bed, oh yes, talk dirty to me. He shakes himself out of that stupid thought. Looks like there's some lingering leftover hormones from his time with Jimmy this morning. 

Jimmy. How does Jimmy fit into his life? Booty call? Nah, he like the guy too much to put him in that box. Friends with benefits but like more 'friends' than the 'benefit' part. Actually, the 'benefit' is about 10- no, 20% of their relationship. That's okay, right? He still thinks of Jimmy more as a friend than as someone to get off with. The guy, on the other hand, seemed to lean more heavily on the 'benefit' part. Hell, _he came onto him first!_ Dean is not the one taking advantage here. 

"Dean," someone whispers in his ear.

"What the hell?!" he cries, jumping almost a foot into the air, springing back from the half naked man leaning over his shoulder. "Ash! Jesus fuck! Personal space!"

And that's the problem. Ever since Lawrence, he needs, at least, a 2 feet wider circle of personal space than an average person. Especially of the male variety. It's not that he's traumatized- he's not, but the feeling of another man so close to him makes his heart jumps and sweat to pool on his forehead. He knows it's stupid, but he can't help but feel like their eyes are roaming his body, his ass and is about to bend him over the nearest surface and take him then and there. 

It's illogical. Most of the people he knows here are a nice bunch. Sincere, honest hard workers. Ash, for example, he likes to parade around in his jeans and sometimes only boxers short, but he means no harm in that. That's just the way he is. But it still makes the hair on his arms stands, especially when said man is leaning over him and breathing down his neck. 

So yes, he needs Jimmy. It's the only way he can be normal anymore because being near people sets his heart palpating. That kind of makes making new friends hard. If he were to try. Which he didn’t. But hey, internet friends counts. Maybe the phone screen works like some sort of filter. He can act like his old self. Flirt and banter. The notion of sex doesn't seem so foreign. The intimacy is there and yet, in a way, not. It works. Honestly, it just feels good to be able to interact without second guessing or hesitation.

Ash shrugs. "I call your name like a thousand times. You're really all up in-" he makes a circle movement with his finger over his temples. "Dirty thoughts?" he asks with a smirk and an arched brow.

Dean rolls his eyes. So what if he was really having dirty thoughts? Ash doesn't need to know that. He takes the clipboard from the nearby table and flips the pages. "I've already got Mr. Pullio and Ms. Savannah's car tuned up. Just need to call them so they can pick them up today. That will clear up some spots for the two other cars that came in. I still need to check out Mr. Obor's car. We still don't know what's wrong with it. And-"

"Right, right. You're spacing me out here. Well, good work, Dean. Keep it up. I'm going to go back to my black hole and do some more awesome black hole stuff. Anyone comes looking for me I'm not here," he says walking backward to the office area. 

"Dr. Bad-Ass," someone shouts from behind Dean. 

Ash stops in his tracks, face paling before turning tail and runs for the office, opening the door and slamming it shut. Dean stares at where the man disappeared, eyes wide and mouth open. After a moment, he closes his mouth shut and tilts his head to the side muttering, "O-kay," before turning around. Who he sees almost makes him drops his jaws again. 

"What? Gabriel?! What are you doing here? And who's Dr. Bad-Ass? If you say Ash, I got to to say that some wicked ass nickname."

"Deano!" the man greets spreading his arms wide. He strides up into his personal space and ignoring his protests pulls him into a hug. Dean swallows and wraps his arms around the other man, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder. He's almost a foot shorter than Dean, and his long blonde hair tickles his nose. 

"What are the odds? I knew you're in Sioux Falls but whoa- what are you doing for working for Ash? He didn't get you in trouble did he?" he asks squinting, champagne eyes twinkling. The man is like a child contrary to what he was lead to believe when they first met. 

"What? No. I'm just helping out with the shop. Fixing cars," he says gesturing at his more than greasy appearance. Gabriel blanches as if only realizing that Dean is covered with oily substances and takes a step back, checking his clothes and groaning when he sees the stains on it. 

"Damn. This is new, Deano."

"I tried to warn you."

"Should have warned me louder," he grumbles before peeking over Dean's shoulder. "Hey, Ash!" he yells. Obviously, there's no answer. 

"What does a 'secret operative' need with Ash anyway?" he asks, turning around to stare at the closed door as well. "You know, I was always curious about what he does in there. I guess nothing good?" He arches an eyebrow at Gabriel. 

"Oh, all good things alright. But my lips are sealed. Now, if you'll excuse me, Deano I've got super important super secret agent things to do," he says pompously as he steps around Dean, giving him a wide berth before heading straight for the door. As suspected, the door is locked. Gabriel glances back at Dean, who shrugs and approaches the box on the wall where they hang all the keys, takes the one for the office and throws it across the room. He feels like a traitor for doing that, but it's Gabriel. Ash couldn't be in too much trouble. 

The man catches it and slips it into the lock. "See you in a bit," he winks before entering the office, closing the door behind himself. 

Dean stands in his spot looking amused. It's a shock to see Gabriel again, but the man is good fun. Annoying sometimes, almost impish with a massive sweet tooth but honest and sincere. Despite his dismissive behavior, he's committed to his job. There's a fire there, blazing and burning. Dean doesn't know what motivates the guy because Gabriel sure as hell doesn't give a fuck about protocols or regulations; he's not a government drone as he always used to say. He makes up his own rules. He answers to no one. 

Chucking the clipboard back on the table, he moves to the front office. It's just a small space with a two seater and a counter. He sits on the stool there and pulls up the logbook. He rings up the two clients and informs them that their car is ready. They are extremely relieved, thanking Dean for his fast work. They had to travel by public transport the past days, and it was hell. He hangs up the phone with a smile on his face. It feels good to be useful again and to have people appreciating his work. He's capable of doing more than just lay on his back or stomach and spread his legs. 

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he sends Jimmy a message. 

my fav band is led zeppelin n pls tell me u know them. 

_I'm not a morning person. And yes, I do know Led Zeppelin. A friend of mine used to hum their songs a lot. It's hard to ignore._

hahha i hum their song all the time too. ramble on!!!

_Was I rambling?_

Dean can actually picture the frown on his face and the tilt of his head. Where did that come from? He doesn't even know how Jimmy looks like. Stop picturing Castiel, Dean. You seriously need to get a life. Or a friend you can physically see and touch. 

sigh. u dont really know the band do u?

_I only know of the band's name. And a few of their songs. But if you ask me to name them, I'm sorry, Dean but I don't know._

sighhhhhh. ur not the classical music type r u? ohgod pls say no.

_No? I don't listen to music much to be honest._

what???

_I like the silence. Or I used to. Now it's just scary._

Dean frowns at the message. why?

_It's too quiet. I can hear my own thoughts. They are not always good._

Dean stares at the message feeling his playfulness slips a little. Jimmy seems troubled. The way he talks, it's almost like he's- He quickly types out a message.

u know what? i can make u a playlist on youtube n send u the link so u could listen to all my fav zepplin songs. theyre awesome n noisy u wont be able to hear urself think. would u like that?

There's a short pause where Jimmy doesn't reply. The green dot stares back at him, not typing just there. He knows Jimmy is still online. Did he cross some sort of line? Maybe Jimmy thinks he's poking his nose into business that has nothing to do with him. Dean likes to think they're friends, but Jimmy never agreed or said anything about it. Maybe all the guy want is someone to get off to once in awhile. Feeling like he'd overstepped his boundaries, he types. 

sorry. 

_Why are you sorry?_

shouldve kept my mouth shut 

_Why?_

shrugs

_Dean, I was merely surprised. That's a very nice thing of you to do._

Seriously, who talks like that? It feels almost like kindergarten again when his teacher praised him for sharing his cookie with a kid who had dropped his. His face blushes hot, the compliment still affecting him like it did all those years ago. This time, though, it has a sexual connotation to it. Something must be seriously wrong with him because what the actual fuck? 

no problem. 

They're quiet for a moment. It's weird how it can feel awkward even via the phone. Like he's picturing Jimmy staring at the screen and him staring at the screen and they're both staring at the screen and not knowing what to say when just hours before Jimmy sent him a dick pic that he had saved into a super secret file on his phone. What? That's good spank bank material, okay? 

so ur a grouch in the morning huh? 

_Very._

this morning someone was in a good mood. 

_I woke up sweating and screaming from a nightmare._

Dean stares at the message clueless as to what to say next. But he's saved from answering when Jimmy starts to type. 

_You made me feel better. The next time, I want you to gag yourself with a tie. Do you have a tie? Preferably blue. I do not want anyone else to hear the delicious sounds you make._

Dean closes his eyes and has to breathe a little to calm down his racing heart. Jimmy can go from 0 to 100 in a split second. One of these days, he's going to give Dean a whiplash. It's unbelievable what teenage hormones can do for your sex life because he can already feel his dick stirring with interest in his jeans. Damn. He rushes to type back when for the second time today, someone whispers in his ear. 

"Sexting?" 

Dean jumps, startled and falls off the stool, landing on his ass on the hard tiled floor as he cries out in pain and surprise. 

"Gabriel!" he hisses patting around for his phone which had clattered out of his hands during the fall. "You better hope I didn't break my phone. I don't have the extra money to buy a new one," he growls. His hand touch the cold, smooth surface of the screen and picks it up. Phew. Nothing is broken or, at least, he doesn't think so. The screen is intact, and when he starts to type, it works. 

gtg. annoying friend. Ill add blue tie to my grocery list. 

Before he closes the app, he manages to skim Jimmy short but precise reply. 

_Good boy._

He shudders, conscious of Gabriel looming bodily in front of him. He quickly shuts down the app and stuffs the phone back into his pocket before moving to get up. "There's such a thing call personal space, people," he shouts hoping Ash would hear it too. "Learn it," he mutters. 

Gabriel leans against the counter, a snarky smile on his lips just watching him. "Who's your new squeeze?" he asks voice dripping with lewdness a hundred strip clubs will not even begin to compare. Dean ignores him bending over to straighten the fallen stool. Which is a big mistake that he soon finds out when Gabriel makes a grab for his phone in his back pocket and runs off with it cackling like a maniac. He's panics but then remembers that he password-protected the thing. The relief is short-lived, though when Gabriel whoops and flips the phone around to show Dean that he's in his messenger. 

"Give that here!" he roars launching at the smaller man. 

"Nope," he answers moving to the right, just avoiding Dean's attack. He didn't even lift his eyes from his phone, the bastard. Dean makes a grab for him again but every time he comes close, Gabriel manages to slip out of his grasp. It doesn't appear to cost the man any energy or strength at all. He's like a ninja. Growling in frustration, he grabs one of the couch cushions and throws it at the man's head. He watches in dismay as the pillow hits the wall behind Gabriel. How does he do that? 

__Giving up, he slumps into the two-seaters, sulking. "And they say the big brother thing is bullshit. You're scrolling through my private messages right now, Gabe. It's a total violation of my amendment rights." He glares at Gabriel whose eyes is widening at the screen. Dean's face flushes red, and he feels bad on Jimmy's behalf because now a stranger gets to see his dick. Something that is meant for him and only him. Getting angry again, he rises from the couch only to have Gabriel tosses the phone back to him. He scrambles to catch it, heart beating in his throat._ _

__"Gabe! I'm not a super secret spy. I don't have reflexes like you do," he yells clutching his phone to his chest._ _

__"Keep saying that and I'm going to have to lock you in a secure facility where you can kiss your freedom and sexting goodbye. It's supposed to be a secret, Deano. Cmon." He taps the side of his head._ _

__Dean glares at him but shrugs embarrassedly. "Sorry," he mutters. "But this-" he waves his phone in front of him "is not okay. It's a violation of Jimmy's right. And I feel like a jerk for breaking his trust now."__

His shoulders slump as he thinks about how he should approach the subject with the dude. What if Jimmy stops what they're doing completely? What if he doesn't want to be Dean's friend anymore? Goddamnit, he had only been speaking to the guy a few times, but Jimmy fills a hole in his life that has been empty since Castiel. Not in the same way, of course, he's not replacing Castiel but- 

__Jimmy makes Dean feels normal. Even if the guy is not so normal himself. But hey, who in this world doesn't have demons?_ _

__Gabriel shrugs, not looking guilty at all. "Have you heard from Novak or Lucifer?" he asks out of the blue. Not that it's weird, Gabriel is still on the case or hunt for them. Though, why would a high-level agent work on cases like this he never knows._ _

__"No," he says dejectedly._ _

__"You will tell me if you do? We still think Novak might try to contact you."_ _

__"Yeah? Well, he didn't." He knows he sounds bitter, but a part of him hurts. He knows he doesn't have any rights but still- Three months. And nothing. Maybe Castiel took his own advice and forgot all about Dean._ _

__"Think smart, Deano. Not everything is as it seems," Gabriel says cryptically. Dean frowns at him, but before he can ask what he means by that, Gabriel claps his hands together. "It was nice bumping into you but I've got work to do, people to kill, privacy to violate," he winks as he steps around Dean, "but I'll be in town for a few days. We should hang out. I've put my number on your phone by the way. It's under Mr. Awesomeness. Call me," he mouths before disappearing out the shop like a gust of very loud and in your face wind._ _

Dean shakes his head and turns around to head back into the garage. He pauses when he sees the opened door to the back office. Screw it. Boss or no boss, he’s curious. 

When he reaches Ash's room, he knocks and waits. No reply. He knocks again. Still nothing. Unease starts to prick at him. He tries the knob. It's unlocked. He's not going to find Ash's dead body inside, is he? Don't be stupid. Gabriel is not an assassin. He's a government agent for fuck sake! Turning the knob, he pushes the door open feeling a little déjà vu to the time he found Castiel bleeding and dying on the restroom floor. 

The sounds of clacking keyboard fill his ears. Releasing the breath he'd been holding, he steps into the room. It's a mess, as usual. Clothes strewn everywhere, pizza boxes piling high and what looks to be a bowl of rotten fruits with blowflies flying around it in circled. Gross. 

Ash is sitting behind his computer, still shirtless and donning only his boxer shorts typing away on a keyboard propped on his knees. His laptop is opened on the bed beside him running some sort of program that looks complicated and not entirely legal. The room smells like weed which is not surprising considering Ash smokes _all_ the time. 

__"Ash, is everything okay?" he asks unsure if he should enter or stay by the door. The man doesn't seem to have heard him. Dean checks to make sure that he doesn't have his headphones on. No, he didn't see one, so he calls out again louder this time. "Ash?"_ _

__"Almost there," the man mutters under his breath typing furiously. If movie and tv can be trusted, it looks like he's hacking into something. The computer screen is black with only line and lines of what he can only assume are codes. It's complete gibberish to Dean. Frowning, he enters and closes the door behind him. He approaches the man silently not wanting to disrupt his attention. Graphs and diagrams are plastered on the wall above the large computer screen. Dean tries to read it, but all he can get out of it are the words he read; what it's for, or it's purposes are lost to him. He's not that stupid, is he?_ _

__Ash smashes the enter button with a flourish making a noise that sounds uncomfortably like an orgasm from deep in his throat. He even closes his eyes and stretches, stomach muscles pulling taut on his thin frame, ribs showing. He yawns and pushes the keyboard aside, turning his chair around to face Dean. "You know that douchebag Gabriel?" he asks without preamble._ _

"Yeah. The question is, how do _you_ know him?" 

__Ash waves a hand dismissively. "Dude's always trying to recruit me."_ _

__"Recruit you?" Dean's eyes widen. "You know what he does for a living?" he whispers._ _

__"He likes to pretend he's someone important, but really, all these government agents are just foot soldiers for big brother," he says shooting a meaningful look at his laptop. "Nah, that life isn't me. I like what I have. No strings, no ties. Just pure freedom baby! I get money when I want. I get chicks when I'm horny. I don't need people telling me what I can or can't do. It's why I quit MIT in the first place. Those professors are anal."_ _

__He picks up a butt and starts smoking on it, blowing out a puff of smoke from his nose and mouth. Not to be a cliche but Ash looks the typical druggie, and if Dean doesn't know him better, he would think he is. An addict. But Ash is much more aware and present than he let on. Maybe the sloppy I-don't-give-a-fuck attitude is something to throw people off. Especially now that he knows Ash is on Gabriel's radar. Special forces's radar. Holy fuck._ _

__"Fuck."_ _

__"Fuck alright. Can't you believe he found me?"_ _

__"What does he want?"_ _

__Ash looks up at him smirking. "He'll be pissed if I tell you but that's is exactly why I'm going to." He puffs on the butt some more before sitting up and pulling his chair back in front of the table. He types something onto the keyboard and the black screen with codes disappear and in its place is a graph. "This is the traffic for a browser I've been tracking. See this spike here? It means there's a lot of activity going on." He clicks on the spike and the graphs zooms in to show a spider chart. "I wanted to know why the sudden spike in activity. It's always bound to be something interesting. Last time this happened, it got me into some dipshit organization financial database. Holy crap that was some intense shit. That's how Gabriel found me too."_ _

__Dean stares at the chart not understanding a thing but is glad that Ash is, at least, speaking in a language normal people understand. "Alright, see how the traffic seems to be pinging in from everywhere? Well, that because it is. The system routes every IP address so that they're untrackable, but the source for these amount of interest comes from this one link." He clicks on it, and a browser opens. Or at least, Dean thinks is one. It doesn't look like any browser he's used to. "See this here?" Ash points to a video. It's dark. All he's able to make out is the silhouette of a man behind a desk. "This is what had been generating all the traffic."_ _

__"What is it?" he asks intrigued. This feels so James Bond. It's exciting though slightly creepy at the same time. He didn't think such things exists in real life. But then again, movies are supposed to be an adaptation or imitation of real life. There has to be some truth to the things you see on your tv screen. Ash scrolls to the video and clicks on it. The screen blacks out and a box appears._ _

__"It's password protected. Took me awhile to crack it but once you know what it's about it's easy. The video is a hit. Only people from the same network would know the password to it. Hired killers in this case. But I've hacked into their database long ago, so I knew the password. It changes daily but once I crack the algorithm, I'm in their 'network' so to say," he explains typing a long sequence into the box. Dean thinks that even if he knows the password, remembering them is another thing. Ash doesn't even need to look it up or refer to anything._ _

__"I have a photographic memory," he adds as if reading Dean's thought. The longer he stays in this room, the more surreal everything becomes. How did he end up working for a crazy hacker shut-in? Fuck. But so awesome he thinks, feeling the excitement bubbling inside him as he watches the video loads and soon Ash's speakers boom with a, he's quite sure, computer generated voice._ _

__"Hello, killers. I've got a job for you. I want Lucifer Kane. If you bring him to me alive, I will give you a million dollars for your effort. The man put me in hell and I want to return the favor. Injure him if you must but he needs to still be breathing for you to be paid. I want him to hurt. I want him to wish he was never alive. I want to take from him what he took from me. If you're worried about payment, don't." The screen switches to a bank account. The name and number of the account are blurred out and at the bottom of the screen where the balance is is the figure $1,000,000. The screen switches back to the man again. "Give me Lucifer Kane and this is yours. And don't bother hacking. It's futile. Good day." The video blacks out, and they're back on the browser again._ _

__Dean stares at the screen unmoving. He thinks his heart might have stopped. Lucifer Kane. The name spoken in that electronic voice chilled him to his bones. Not only is he wanted by the government but there's a bullseye on the back of the man's head. Killers. Hired _professional_ killers are after him. And he has Castiel! What are the odds that he's not dead already? And Castiel, what if he'd been in the way? What if- and the chance is more likely, Castiel tried to help and died in the process? Is it possible that they're already dead? Is that why the police were not able to find them?_ _

__His grip on the back of Ash's chair is so tight his knuckles are turning white. His vision is clouding, and he feels lightheaded. What did he get Castiel into? What did he make Castiel do? What- Why? His mind is screaming, eyes wavering. Ash drones on unaware of the mental breakdown he's currently having. "The video's been out since the news about Kane came on the news. So maybe three months ago? Traffic's been crazy since then. Interests are at an all time high. I hacked the network and got the location where the video was put online. And of course, it's Europe. It's always fucking Europe."_ _

__"But being the genius that I am, I managed to score a little more. You saw the account, right? Well, that's what the dude mean. It's pointless trying to hack into it because well, one we don't have the account number and two, the bank it's using has one of the best network security. I did, however, managed to hack not into their internet banking side but their accounting department. You know finance, admins, the paperwork that sort of thing. And I shortlisted the accounts with only a million dollar in it's saving. Well, technically there's 18 of them, but I crossed out those who don't bother hiding their identities while the others were companies that have to be legit or else the world economy is not as safe as we originally thought and I've got five left."_ _

__"I've been trying to identify these fuckers for the last few months, but damn they're savvy. That's what Gabriel was interested in. He wanted to know who has the hit out on Kane. Seeing as there hadn't been any million dollar transfers during the past three months, it's safe to say whoever this Kane guy is, he's still out there. Alive and free. As of the moment. I wouldn't want to be in his shoes," he shivers. "Imagine having to look over your shoulder every second. These killers that are online? They're crazy fuckers. The things they do. Ugh," Ash blanches._ _

__Dean feels like he can breathe again. If Lucifer is still alive, then Castiel has to be as well. Does he know that Lucifer is hunted? Does he know how much danger he is in? Every second that goes by could mean life or death. They've got to find them before anyone else does. But how? He glances at the computer and then at Ash. In a voice he doesn't think is his own because of how raspy and small they sound, he asks. "Can you find Lucifer?"_ _

__Ash finally turns around and stares at him oddly. "Are you okay, Dean? You're looking a little pale there."_ _

__He shrugs. "It's just super creepy is all."_ _

__Ash nods. "Yeah, I forget how overwhelming these things can be for normal people. I see it so much it doesn't faze me anymore. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing," he says more to himself than at him. Ash leans back in his chair, legs stretch out in front of him, scratching his stomach. "Why do you ask? Looking to earn that million dollars for yourself?" he asks amused. "Thought you're more the hard working type seeing how you sweat over those metal things outside."_ _

__"I'm just curious. Can you?"_ _

__"Well, to whoever's trying to find him, I wish them luck. Kane is ex-special forces. Even if they do find him, it's going to be tough like hell killing him let alone capturing him alive. So I'm not that dumb to go for the hit myself. I do, however, have info that these killers want which gives me a good bargaining chip. But to answer your question, no. I don't know where Kane is or how to find him. He's off the grid. The last traces of him online dated back three years ago. Even with his recent resurface, there's still no digital trail on the man. It’s like he’s living offline. Either that or he’s living off someone else or changed his identity completely. To be thorough, I hacked into that offshore account he set up for that prostitution ring in Lawrence. Untouched."_ _

__It's at moments like this that Dean is glad that he got anonymity for his testimony and throughout the trial. He doesn't need his past to haunt him his entire life. He hopes Ash doesn't dig further into the whole fiasco that happened in Lawrence. Even without the whole hunt-on-Lucifer thing, he wouldn't have known how to handle Ash's reaction. Imagine the man knowing that he knew Lucifer and not only known him but was one of his prostitutes. God no._ _

__"But these killers, they want confirmation, security that their effort won't be for nothing. They want to know that the money is real and that they are getting paid. Hence, mostly people used organizations to hire killers. Not many go to the network and put up a free-for-all hit. Most of them are scams, or at the end of the day, no one gets paid. So knowing if the hit is legit is important and guess who's the one who will provide them with proof? Yours truly," Ash announces, flicking his hair behind his shoulder._ _

__"Isn't it dangerous? What you're doing? Aren't you afraid these killers are going to come for you? I don't know, to demand info?"_ _

__"I'm not stupid, Dean. I'm invisible. I only exist online. They won't find me."_ _

__Dean nods still feeling disturbed by the fact, just barely stopping himself from pointing out that Gabriel did, in fact, found him. Instead, he asks. "Did you figured who put the hit out then?"_ _

__Ash smiles. "I did, Deano. I did."_ _


	9. Chapter 9

Staying in bed the whole day was not working. Castiel was soon bored out of his mind. He can't stand the quiet, the nothingness but time on his hands. It made him go crazy. He reread the conversation with Dean this morning, doubting every single message. They didn't sound like him. His responses were bold, brazen and shameless. He sounded like a _them_ , commanding and directive. 

He got so worked up he almost sent Dean a message wanting to break up their friendship. But before he managed to summon the courage to do that, Dean messaged him. Intentionally or not, he had tried to push Dean away. He didn't bother to hide the fact that he has issues. That there’s something seriously wrong with him. He wanted Dean to see that; doesn't want to hide behind a fake persona anymore. If Dean wanted to be friends with him, he should know just how fucked up he is.

But either Dean doesn't care, or he cares too much because instead of backing away, he stayed. Dean listened to what he was saying and not saying and instead of trying to ‘help’ him or asked what’s wrong, he was purposefully deflective- not in the callous or ignorant way but with good-natured humor. It helped. His easygoing rebuttal and proposal surprised Gabriel. Dean didn't poke at the bruise or acknowledge it. He offered to see Gabriel through it. In not so many words, Dean brought his point across. He’s here to stay, for better or for worse. And that made all the difference.

Try as he may, Castiel is made of flesh and blood. His heart isn't made of ice no matter how much he wished it. Dean's words melted him, seized his attempt at sabotaging their friendship. 

But all it took was just another thirty minutes before all his doubts and insecurities came rushing back. It was then that he decided, to hell with the pain. He needed to do something. As promised, Lucifer had placed a pair of crutches by his bedside. He climbed out of bed, determined to do something productive. He went to the archive, one of the rooms in the other wing and did some research. He read the whole day, taking his time to double check reference and connecting the stories from a variety of news and articles. 

By the time dinner time came, he was starving. Lucifer had made a simple meal of tomato based pasta. Since Michael always does the cooking, there weren't many instant ingredients in the house. Lucifer was forced to make the pasta from scratch, complaining the entire time he cut the tomatoes and rolled the pasta dough through the pasta machine. It was pretty tasty, the sauce thick and creamy and the pasta smooth. It might also be the hunger talking. 

After dinner, rather than going back into his room to face the silence again, he took a bowl and using one crutch, had limped his way to the holding room. Now, though as he stands facing the solid door, he wonders if this is a smart thing to do. Taking a deep breath, he unlocks the door and pushes it open with the tip of the crutches. Careful not to look at the person tied to a chair in the middle of the room, he limps inside. 

He closes the door behind him and leaves the key in the lock, not wanting it anywhere near his body seeing how clumsy he is. Still holding the pasta bowl in one hand, he shuffles around, very much hating his inflexibility at the moment and finally looks up to face the brunette. Meg is staring at him interestedly. He limps forward, ignoring her skull-boring gaze and stands in front of her. He lets the crutches lean against the chair and tries to find a comfortable position to stand that doesn't hurt his leg every time he shifts.

"Hello, Clarence. You smell absolutely ravishing," Meg drawls smiling up at him flirtatiously. 

"It's pasta with tomato sauce," he says indicating the bowl. "You need to eat."

"And here I thought you have all forgotten that I'm a human being who needs nutrition preferably three times a day," she snarks staring at the bowl in front of her. Castiel can see the hunger in her eyes, the way she licks her lips and the bob in her throat. The knot in his guts loosen. He did the right thing coming here. Stirring the pasta with a fork, he holds it up higher. Meg follows his moment with her eyes. "Are you going to feed me, Clarence?" she asks, the corner of her lips curling up.

He doesn't answer her, just roll up a forkful of pasta and holds it in front of her mouth. He waits while Meg glances from the bite to him and back to the fork. She swallows and opens her mouth, moving forward to close her lips over the warm pasta. Castiel can see the relieved slump in her shoulder even though she doesn't say anything. He rolls up another forkful and continues to feed her. They're quiet; the only sound comes from the fork scraping the ceramic bowl as he stirs the pasta, mixing the sauce well. 

When Meg takes the last bite, he places the fork in the bowl and put it aside on the floor behind him. "Why are you so sweet on me, Clarence?" Meg asks. Her tone is soft and intimate, very unlike her usual teasing lilt. Castiel moves to stand slowly, favoring his injured leg before turning to face her. 

"Death adopted you when you're six," he starts. Meg's face shuttered, but she doesn't stop him. "He trained you to be a killer when you're eight. By the time you hit double digits, you've killed three people. Your birth mother, your birth father, and a three-year-old boy. Your step brother." Meg's face grows hard, her dark eyes never leaving his face. "At the age of thirteen, you're picked up by the police. Not for any account of murder but because you were found in bed with an older man, who turns out to be New York's attorney general. I assumed it was part of your job? Instead of killing, they wanted to ruin the man's reputation?"

Meg doesn't answer. 

"You were thirteen." 

When Meg remains silent, he continues. "You accused him of manipulating and using you. The man was sentenced to 10 years in state prison for statutory rape. You disappeared from the public eye until six years ago when you're picked up for disorderly conduct in a bar in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. You were sentenced to one year jail time for assaulting a patron at the bar but was released six months later due to overcrowding. After that, you appeared on and off the radar for drug use and soliciting sex. But two months later, you went off the grid again."

Meg starts laughing, slow at first before it reaches a shrillness that grates on his ears. "Bravo! I would clap if I weren't all tied up at the moment." Her eyes are bright; the smirk still plastered on her face. "So you read my files. Do you know what this is?" she asks, nodding down to the necklace around her neck.

"Death made it for you. As a symbol of ownership. The inscription on the stone below is Enochian. It means Death."

"I'm impressed," Meg glows smiling wide. "You know how to make a girl feels special, Clarence."

"Why did you go back?"

"What makes you think I went back?"

"Did Death threatened you?"

"Why did you go back to Lucifer?"

Castiel stays quiet. They stare at each other for a moment. "I loved him. But I did not follow him because of it. I didn't have a choice. You did. You escaped."

"Father is my everything."

"He abused you."

"So did Lucifer. And you're still fucking him."

"It's different."

"How is it different? Lucifer used you. He sold your body, something that wasn't even his to begin with to get what he wanted. He took your innocence, changed you into this person. Do you even recognize yourself anymore? When you look in the mirror, who do you see? Do you think you'll ever go back to becoming who you were before that man? No. You can never go back. This is who you are now. The sooner you realize that, the better. You can't go back. This is all you know."

Castiel stares at the brunette in front of him. There's a resigned tilt at the corner of her lips. She laughs softly. "I never stood a chance."

His heart hurts for the woman in front of him. Meg was screwed from the very beginning. The moment Death took her under his wings, she's fucked for life. She never knew better. The world must be such a lonely place for her. He finds himself moving closer, placing a hand on her shoulder. Meg snorts. "Take your pity and shove it up your ass. I don't need it."

"I heard about your plan," Castiel says, removing his hand. "I want to help."

"You want to help? _You?_?" she asks incredulously. "Clarence, you're not a killer."

"I've killed before."

"In self-defense. I don't want to turn you into someone like me."

"I want to help."

"Why? Why do you care?"

Castiel hesitates. "I don't know," he answers truthfully.

Meg smiles, shaking her head. "You think by saving me, you save yourself. If someone like me could stand a chance at a normal life, then someone like you could too. Clarence, let me save you the heartache. I'm beyond saving. Put your faith and trust in someone else."

"But you're fighting," he protests not understanding. Meg wants to be free of Death. She wants to have a shot at a real life. That's why she's here. That's why she needed Lucifer. So why isn't she fighting now? "Death knows who holds the contract. Lucifer needs that information. You need Death out of your life. If you bring Lucifer to Death, he'll kill him for you. If he doesn't, I'll do it." And deep down, he knows he means it. Meg's wrong. It _is_ already too late for him.

An unidentifiable emotion flickers in Meg's eyes before her mask of sultry stoicism slips back into place. "I appreciate it, Clarence. But you should let the adult handle this. It's in your own best interest if you stay out of it."

Castiel frowns at her, head tilted to one side. "You don't think you deserve to be saved." 

"I don't!" she snaps, eyes wild. Castiel stares at her, eyes wide. "I like you, Clarence. I don't want you to be messed up with my shit. I’m not good news, Castiel. People see me, and they walk the other way. You should too. Maybe in another life, we would have been friends. Maybe lovers," she smiles. "I should be so lucky." Her eyes shine underneath the single overhead bulb. 

"Do you want to fuck me, Clarence?" she asks, voice small losing all that cocky drawl-like quality. "Is that why you're being so nice to me? You can just say it, you know. It's kinder just to be honest than make me think you care." Her voice breaks at the end, throat bobbing. 

"No. I don't want to have sex with you."

Meg laughs, tears falling down her face. "Ouch. Why does that hurt?"

"I'm sorry for what happened to you. I will make this right. I promise."

"Are you going to be my angel, Clarence?" she asks smiling.

"I'm no angel."

Meg's smile widens. "No. You're a maytr. Now it's my turn to tell you that you deserve better. Your life is worth something too."

Castiel looks away. No, his life doesn't matter. He doesn't matter. But if he's able to make things better for someone else, make things easier than maybe he's worth something. He doesn't say it out loud, knowing what Meg would say in return. Deep down, he knows this to be true even if he can't convince anyone else to admit it with him. After all, he doesn't have anyone who would mourn his death too terribly. Lucifer will get over it. He has Michael. Dean- well, he'd already gotten over him. If Jimmy disappears, he doubts it will impact Dean's life much. He's nothing. He has nobody. He can afford to be sacrificed.

"Goodnight, Meg."

"Nighty night, Clarence."

He turns and picks up the bowl from the floor before moving to lift the crutches from their place beside the chair. Meg turns her head to the side and brushes her lips over the skin on his knuckles. "You're the first person to care," she whispers. "Please stop."

Grabbing the crutches and putting them under his armpit, he says, "No." With that, he limps away to the door. Before he exits, he hears Meg's murmurs, "You'll regret it." He closes the door with a soft click and turns the key in the lock. No, he won't. Even if it costs him his life, he's going to give Meg a chance at living. 

\---

It's half past eight when Dean arrives home; Saturday being the day he works late considering everyone wants to have their car ready for the new working week. He stinks, and there's grease everywhere. How does grease even find their way under his shirt? He hurries to the bathroom upstairs, stripping his shirt off along the way. 

Sam is at Linda's, their neighbor who volunteers to babysit him when Dean is working. He will be sleeping over tonight. Her son, Kevin is Sam's age, and the two got along like houses on fire. The boy is a small Asian kid, very smart for his age and loves all the things that make Sam's eyes sparkle. Basically, they are both geeks. The Trans are like real life angels, bringing normality to Sam's messy, inconsistent childhood. Dean can't thank them enough.

He throws his dirty clothes in a separate hamper and steps into the shower. Cleaning off the dirt and grime and oily substance from his body is a pain in the ass and by the time he comes out, the bathroom is misty, and everything’s fogged. He scrubs his hair dry before draping the towel around his hips. Opening the door, he takes in a deep non-humid breath before plodding to his room. He changes into a comfy pair of sweats and a t-shirt. Just as he's done hanging his towel, he hears the rumbling of an engine outside. Bobby must be back.

He trudges down the stairs craning his neck to see if he can spot Bobby. The back door opens and closes with a bang. Quickening his pace, he approaches the kitchen. "Bobby?" he calls. No answers. From the kitchen doorway, he can see Bobby's baseball cap on the table. That thing is practically glued to his head. The only time Dean had seen him go without was bedtime. 

It has to be him. Walking into the kitchen, he looks around. Bobby is leaning on the counter by the coffee machine, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Everything okay, Bobby?" he asks, raising his voice a little. 

Bobby jerks, hands dropping to his side. When he sees Dean, he relaxes a little. "Jesus, kid. Don't give an old man a heart attack."

"I called you earlier. Didn't you hear me?" he asks, approaching the man. He moves to stand beside him, turning the coffee machine on. He takes the empty water tank and walks to the sink, putting it under the tap. Bobby stares at him. "You forgot to refill the water," Dean explains. "The machine wasn't working or did you hear the imaginary churning in your head?" 

"Balls," Bobby groans. Dean smirks. Ever since Sam arrived, Bobby had been slowly substituting his curse words. He rubs his face with his hands. "Not enough sleep will do that to me."

"So the car, did you find a body?" Dean asks, walking back with the water tank and places it back in the machine. He switches it on and turns around to lean against the counter too, hands crossed over his chest. The familiar buzzing fills the kitchen. Bobby sends her a grateful look. 

"Nope. But there's enough blood to think that whoever it was, probably didn't survive. We scoured the area in a 10 miles radius to see if we will stumble upon the body but nothing. No blood trail, no disturbance in the forest or tracks. Zip. It's like the body just vanished into thin air. We've taken blood samples from the scene to analyze- no fingerprints, whoever it was worn gloves. In the middle of the fricking summer. Like that in itself doesn’t raise a few suspicions. It'll take a few days to identify the driver. _If_ said person's DNA is even in the database to begin with."

"Couldn't you cross-reference the car's number plate?"

"Of course, we did you idjit. Do you think we cops just eat donuts every day? It's a rental car. We know it came from Nebraska and that whoever rented it paid by cash. Unfortunately, they don’t have CCTV and the person who made the transaction couldn’t recall any specifics. At least, we know it's a man," Bobby says rolling his eyes.

The machine sizzles and sputters behind him as the coffee beans are ground. Hot black liquid starts to pour into the mug. The aroma of dark roasted coffee wafts through the kitchen. Bobby sighs, turning around to take the mug into his hands. He takes a sip, closing his eyes as he groans in appreciation. 

"Well, I guess there's nothing you can do until you identify the man. Besides the glove thing, it doesn't really seem like anything fishy is going on. Right? I saw Linda wearing them more than once. Maybe he’s Asian? Okay, that’s racist. Sorry,” he mutters. “He's probably tired, drove off the road and crashed into a tree. He bled a lot but probably isn't hurt that bad. He could have hitchhiked somewhere. You never know," Dean says walking over to the cupboard and taking a mug himself. He turns on the machine again, waiting for it to start up. "Maybe the dude just like his privacy."

Bobby snorts. "If it's that easy, I would have been home a long time ago. No, we had to find all sort of weird stuff in the trunk. Whoever it is, he's a little cuckoo in his head. And probably dangerous."

"Why? What did you find?"

"Confidential government files."

"Oh come on, you can tell me."

"I am telling you," says Bobby indignantly. "The trunk is filled with confidential government files. Some of them even I don't have access to unless I request for it. I spent the whole day filling in paperwork just to get permission to look into those files. My superior is chewing my ass off because now the goddamn feds are going to be involved. _And_ the general attorney that he hates but have to suck ass to. Days like this just fricking blows," he mutters into the mug. 

"What kind of files is that?"

"Most of them are unsolved cases. Minors' juvie records. There are even files on people who are in the witness protection program."

"Aren't those supposed to be super classified?"

Bobby nods severely. "These people had to disappear for a reason. Whoever had these files is searching for someone. We have already informed the U.S. Marshals about this. So they’re on the case too. The more, the merrier,” he exclaims sarcastically. “It’s going to be one bureaucratic fudgefest.”

Dean nods, silently agreeing. Could this have anything to do with why Gabriel is here? But Ash said he's here for information regarding Lucifer, or at least, the man who's responsible for the hit. The two cases doesn't seem connected. Maybe he's just thinking too much. Coincidence happens. Not everything is related to one another. 

Today is just a weird day. Starting with Jimmy's sudden boldness, Gabriel's appearance, the sudden discovery of Ash's side job, finding out the hit on Lucifer and the fact that the man was ex-special forces and the crash course on the whole hitman 'mob-hits-are-real' universe. It's probably the leftover adrenaline talking. 

"Well, go and get some rest," he says motioning to the living room with the couch and cable tv. "Let me make dinner." 

Bobby grouches something or other before shuffling out the kitchen. He takes off his coat and throws it over the arm of the couch before settling into his favorite one seater, legs up on the stool in front of him still hugging his coffee. Before long, Dean can hear the sound of the tv, soft but familiar in the background. 

Smiling to himself, he starts to prepare a meal. There are only eggs and leftover ham from this morning in the fridge. Luckily they still have some rice so he could make them stir-fried rice. He's humming again, and he doesn't notice it until the tv goes silent. Ramble On. The corner of his lips twitch up. He continues to hum and whistles as he throws the ingredient together in the pan. Soon, the delicious smell of cooking food starts to fill the kitchen area. Even Bobby couldn't resist the tempting aroma, wandering from the living room to seat himself at the table.

"Hungry?"

"Starving."

"Almost done," he smiles. Scooping out the rice onto two plates, he serves them on the table with two bottles of beer. Bobby raises the bottle up, and Dean does the same, nodding before taking a long pull from the cold refreshing beverage. He sighs. After a long day work, beer is always welcomed. He relaxes instantly. Picking up his spoon, he takes a mouthful of slightly salty fried rice. He likes sodium, okay? He hates those 'healthy' but tasteless food. 

"How are you doing, kid?" Bobby asks gruffly, eyes never leaving the plate in front of him. 

"Fine," he answers. "Tired but who isn't working 11 hours straight."

Bobby nods. "You coping well?" The man looks uncomfortable, and Dean starts to feel uneasy himself. He can physically feel his defense locking up, walls shooting sky high with barbwires on top. He swallows his mouthful and waits a while before answering.

"Yeah," he shrugs.

Bobby nods again. "Well, you know you can come to me if you- uh, need anything. Talk or whatever," the man shrugs.

"Is there something you want to say Bobby?" he asks a bit too sharply. 

Bobby looks up, expression serious. "Yeah hell I do. Ever since you've been here, you'd been pretending like nothing happened. I thought you needed time, but it's been three months, boy and bottling up all your feeling ain't good for your mind. You need to talk about it."

"I don't need to talk shit."

"Dean," Bobby sighs putting his elbows on the table and rubbing his face with his hand. The man looks tired, grayer than Dean remembered him being. Despite feeling like a cornered hyena at the moment, he feels himself softens. Still he says nothing, though. If Bobby wants him to talk, he has to pull it out of him, kicking and screaming. "I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

"I don't need help."

"Yes, you do! I cannot even begin to imagine the horror you've been through and trust me if I see John's face, he's going to get his balls kicked so hard, he wishes he had been born a girl."

"It's not dad's fault."

"Why are you still defending the man after everything he'd put you through?" Bobby asks bewildered.

"He's dad. No matter what anyone else says, he loves us. I know he does."

Bobby stares at him from across the table not speaking, then- "How are you holding up? And none of this I'm fine bullshit."

"What do want me to say?" he snaps. "Do you want to hear every gritty detail of what happened? Why don't you just read the police report then? Save me the trouble and humiliation," he mutters.

"You think by talking about it, it's humiliating? Boy, you got your head so far up your ass you couldn't even see the oncoming truck. You have nothing to be ashamed of, Dean."

"Oh, yeah? Doesn't feel that way," he sneers, picking at his food. Bobby is quiet, but he isn't eating either. After awhile Dean can't take the silence anymore. 

"I remember everyone, Bobby. Every single one of them." He grits his teeth, tears burning behind his eyes. See, this is why he doesn't want to talk about it. It makes him emotional, and now he's about to cry like a fucking baby. "I can't wash them off me. No matter how hot I turn the water up, how much I scrub, I still feel them on me." His voice wavers. "No matter how far I put myself from that place, I can't run from it. It sticks to me."

"Can't you see why I don't want to talk about it? Because as much as I like to pretend nothing happened, I can't. It haunts the living daylight out of me. So excuse me for avoiding the issue like the plague because if I talk about it, I bring them back. In HD TV and everything." His hands start to shake, and he lets go of the spoon. The room starts to feel humid, heady. Cold sweat films his forehead. The skin on his back prickles, sensitive as they rub against his cotton t-shirt. 

The johns, at least, those who he can name and identified were all sentenced to prison. Not all of them, but a majority were. And those who had taken part in raping him were behind bars too. But there's one man who scares Dean more than the rest combined. That man is still walking free. The cops got to the prison too late. He ran. Tall, thin and sickly with a balding head. Deep set eyes, bored so deep into his skull they look like hollowed holes. His face is long and thin, horselike but sharper, bottom jaw jutting out. When he smiles, every hair on Dean's body stands. 

Alastair Creely. The man who gave him the scars on his back.

"Dean!" Bobby shouts. 

Dean looks up, eyes shiny with unshed tears. Bobby is standing beside him, one hand on his shoulder, leaning down in front of him, his face a mask of concern and worry. When Dean doesn't react, the man straightens up and moves his hand to the back of Dean's head and pulls him in. He closes his eyes against Bobby's soft stomach, tears staining the man's shirt. Bobby massages his neck, holding him steady. Dean doesn't say a word; not trusting his voice not to break. He doesn't hug Bobby back but silently take comfort in the man's warmth and presence. 

"I'm sorry," the man gruffs out. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"It's okay, Bobby."

"I just want you to know that you can always come to me if you're afraid. I'm not going to think less of you for doing so. People get afraid sometimes. And it's alright to be small and vulnerable. It's alright to want comfort and reassurance. There's no shame in that. It's time you let someone else take care of you, Dean. Let me take care of you."

His eyes burn, and his shoulder starts to shake. He hides his face in the fabric; hands clenched into fists in his lap. "You took full responsibility for your baby brother even when you're just a little boy yourself. I remembered you following us around, watching and memorizing. You learned how to cook, how to change your brother's diaper, how and what to feed him, bathe him, take his temperature when he's sick-"

"When was the last time someone took care of you, boy?"

Three months ago. His eyes burn stronger. But he's done. Pushing away from Bobby, he covers his face with both hands and rubs, smoothing his hands down the scruff at his mouth and chin. "Thanks, Bobby. You're a good man." His voice is raspier than he would like it. He takes a deep breath, schooling his expression before he looks up. "Well, now that you got me crying like a baby, I announce chick-flick moments are officially over. Now, can we get back to our beers like two manly men and finished this dish I made so lovingly for you?" he goads giving Bobby his signature bad boy smirk. 

The old man rolls his eyes, moving back to his seat across the table. "Family doesn't end with blood, boy. You’re not Superman. And you don’t have to be one."

Dean stares at Bobby as the man drinks his beer and shovels down his rice. Maybe he’s right. Dean was so used to being strong and tough for Sam, he forgets he doesn’t have to now. They have Bobby. But years of habit are hard to ignore. And part of him is still afraid to let go. There are no sure things in life. What if they lose Bobby? What if something were to happen and they’re back to how they were? If he lets himself get too comfortable, get _soft_ , he doesn’t know if he can survive if it all goes away. It will break him. Dean just protecting himself. Just in case. 

He looks back down at his food and takes a huge bite. 

\---

It's dark. The only light in the room comes from the computer screen. Someone is sitting in front of the computer. A man. The man is shirtless. He's typing furiously on a keyboard, eyes following the lines of very long words and numbers lining his screen. The way he stares unblinkingly at the screen is creepy. Occasionally, he'll lick his lips or bites them. The man is very focused. 

He looks around. There are shadows everywhere. Why doesn't the man turn on the lights? He hates the dark. It reminds him of the creepy dark room. One of the shadows move. He freezes, staring hard at the corner where he thought he saw the movement. It's too dark; the black looks like a black hole. He read about it in books. A black hole is something that is so dark that even light couldn't pass through it. The shadows in the room are like black holes. 

He stares at the corner. Something seems to be moving inside the shadow. He wants to move, run, escape but he's rooted to the spot. All he can do is watch. A man emerges from the corner. He has something in his hand. He's like a ghost, gliding across the floor. The other man at the computer doesn't hear him, too focused on the screen ahead. 

He wants to shout, warn, do something. When he opens his mouth to scream nothing comes out, even though it feels like he is screaming. The man at the computer collapses, falling off the chair he was in. His eyes are open, looking around wildly but he's not moving. The creepy man crouches down beside him. He leans down until he's just above the man's head and whispers something into his ears. The man on the floor opens his mouth in a silent scream.

Maybe like him, the scream wouldn't come out. He watches at the creepy man pulls the computer man up and arranges him on the bed. Something is not right. The computer man is not resisting, his head lolling about as saliva drips from his mouth. He's sitting with his back against the wall, legs hanging over the bed. Why is he not fighting back? Fight, computer man, fight! 

But he didn't. He lay there as the creepy man moves around the room. He places something on the table by the computer. Is it a small napkin? Or something that looks like one. The man opens it, and from the glow of the screen, he can see the glints from the needles there. Is he going to sew? He watches as the creepy man takes one needle out, examines it in the bright light of the screen before approaching the man on the bed.

The next hours or, at least, he thinks so, all he could see was blue veins, trembling limbs, and strained muscles. The computer man's face is etched in a 'perpetual'- he learned that word in the dictionary recently, silent scream. At one point, his eyes start to bleed, his body glistening with sweat. He has a sort of funny hairstyle. Short in the front, long at the back. His blonde hair hangs limply on his shoulder, sweat clumping them in locks. 

He screams with the man too but like before there's no sound. Not one.


	10. Chapter 10

Sunday morning starts with blue skies and high sun, the ideal weather for a family outing. Dean actually felt bad that he had to work today. It'd be good to take Sam out for a stroll in the park or something. Go to the museum or zoo. He would love it. Maybe Dean can work something out. It's only half a working day. Seeing as he worked late last night, he's allowed to come in at ten. Two hours later than what he's used to and finish at one. That makes a different. At least, now he could see Sam before leaving. Provided the little fellow is back from the Tran's next door. 

He plods down the stairs. It's still early, about a quarter to nine. The kitchen is empty. Bobby is probably still asleep. He's going to need all the rest he could get before the case picks up. Supposedly the feds are coming in today and, Rufus and Bobby are tasked to assimilate them to the case as well as be the intermediary. They couldn't have picked a worse couple. Rufus and Bobby are known for their bad social manners. Rufus especially can be plain rude.

He turns on the coffee machine and pulls out the dough to make pancakes. He can already picture Sam's big grin, only made goofier by the chipped tooth at the front.

He’s pouring batter into the pan when there's a knock from the back. That must be them. He turns the fire lower and walks to the back door, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans. Standing outside, smiling like dorks are Sam and Kevin. Behind them is Linda, who's rolling her eyes at something they said. "Good morning, Linda. I hope Sam didn't bother you too much last night?" he asks, ruffling the kid's head.

Sam ducks underneath his arms and rushes inside. "Bye, Kevin! And thank you, Linda!" 

Linda waves back at him and moves closer to Dean, leaning in as if to whisper something conspirational. "I've never seen Kevin laughs this much. Sam can sleep over anytime he wants." Straightening up, she says in a stern voice. "Kevin, bedtime is always eight at night. Not half past nine," she scolds. 

Kevin turns pleading face at his mother. "But it wasn't a school night. And we were having so much fun!" he says, bouncing on the sole of his heels.

"Yeah, we were Linda!" Sam shouts from inside.

Dean turns around and shoots him a look then glances up. Sam closes his mouth with both hands, looking embarrassed. "Oops," he says sheepishly. "Sorry." Dean turns back to the mother and son outside and ruffles Kevin's hair. At least, the kid knows how to appreciate his affectionate gestures. The boy smiles brightly.

"We marathoned Scooby Doo!" he says. "It was legendary! Shaggy and Scooby are the best teams! Like Sam and me! We solved the mystery of "The Creepy Night Terror"," he says dipping his voice and raising both his hand in a creepy-crawly kind of way. 

"Kevin!" Sam scolds from inside. "We agreed not to talk about it!"

"Talk about what?"

"Oh. Um. Nothing. Mooom, let's go home. I'm hungry," Kevin whines tugging his mom away. "Bye Sam!" he calls back over his shoulder. Linda rolls her eyes at Dean in a what-can-you-do gesture and follows Kevin. He waves them goodbye before shutting the door and goes back to the pancake. It's turning brown nicely. He smiles, flipping it over and turns to face Sam.

"The Creepy Night Terror?" he asks. Sam ignores him, jumping from his seat to pour himself a glass of milk. "Sam," he calls threateningly. When the boy just goes back to his seat and stares at him over the glass of milk he's gulping down, Dean asks. "Were you having nightmares again?"

Sam puts down the glass and sighs. For a six years old, he can sure pull off the I’m-100%-done face except for the fact that he's currently supporting a milkstache. Dean wants to point it out but thinks better of it, laughing silently inside. "It's nothing, Dean."

"Did you woke Kevin up?" He arches an eyebrow. Sam shrugs, looking shifty. "Then it's serious. What was is it this time? Cas? Lucifer? The monsters?" 

"No."

Frowning, Dean turns around to slide the pancake onto a plate. He pours another batter in before turning around. "Then, what?"

"I don't know. I don't recognize the people in it."

"Well, that's not so strange. Most of the time, in my dreams, things always kind of blend together. Sometimes, I'm not even myself, or I am talking to myself or the person I'm talking to change into someone mid-dream. Dreams are odd, Sam. Don't dwell on it, okay? It's over. You're awake. You're safe. Forget about it." He turns around to flip the pancake again.

"I know! But this was different. It was sooo clear it's like watching a movie," Sam protests earnestly, the way only a child can. “And I remembered everything." His voice softens to a whisper. Dean turns around just in time to catch the shudders running through his thin frame. Sam needs to eat more he thinks. He slides the pancake into the same plate and pours another batter. Grabbing the honey, he takes the plate and walks over to Sam. The boy brightens visibly at the sight of food and makes grabby hands for it. 

Dean slides the plate and honey over and watches as Sam squirts a copious amount onto his pancakes. "What did you dream about?"

"A man getting killed," Sam says through a mouthful of pancake.

Dean blinks like he'd just got slapped in the face and didn't know how to react because it happened so fast. "What?"

Sam shrugs. "It's like watching a horror movie. The kind that you put on sometimes when we're at the motel, and you thought I was asleep."

 _"You watched that?"_ he asks incredulous.

"Uh huh," Sam nods. "It's kind of like that." 

"Jesus," Dean mutters, rubbing his face with his hands as he stands to pour another batter into the pan. "All that Scooby Doo stuff must have jerk those memories back. You know what, from now on, you're only allowed to watch happy kids film." Besides, the new Scooby Doo, _Scooby-Doo! Mystery Incorporated_ doesn't do the original justice. He'd seen fragments of it when Sam was glued in the front of the tv marathoning Cartoon Network, and yep, nothing like the original. Bless his 90's childhood.

"But Scooby Doo is a kid film!" Sam protests. "And it's funny!"

"No. It touches on things that hit too close to home. No more Scooby Doo."

"You're unbelievable!" Sam pouts, stuffing more pancake into his mouth. "Please, Dean, please. Kevin would be so disappointed if we can't marathon Scooby anymore," he badgers pulling out the big guns, big puppy dogs eyes wide.

Dean rolls his eyes. Sam is using the emotional card again, the smart boy. "Fine, fine," he concedes. He wasn't really serious about the bar on Scooby Doo anyway. It's his fault for watching 'Saw' in the middle of the night. He likes horror movies, alright? It doesn't matter if it's a great horror movie like The Conjuring or B-rated ones like Snarknado with a lot of nudity and boobs, he loves them all. Crappy horror lets his mind drift; he can physically feel his brain rot but hey, sometimes he needs that break.

"But if you have another nightmare again, don't come crawling into my bed."

"That was one time, Dean. One time. Let it go."

Dean slides the last pancake onto his plate and walks over, attempting to ruffle the kid's hair but is denied when he ducks under his hands. Sighing, he sits and digs into his breakfast. Bleh. Too bad they're out of bacon. Time for a grocery run. He thinks he can squeezes in the time after work today. Then he's going to prepare a mouth-watering meal for them. Something with meat. Lots and lots of meat. Maybe he could take out Bobby's old grill, and they could barbecue out this evening. The weather is perfect for it. Yep, that's decided then.

He glances at the clock and almost does a spit-take. With pancake. "Ohmygod, is it that late already? Jesus, I got to run." He rolls up the rest of his pancake and in three bites finishes them all. 

"Ew, you're gross Dean," Sam complains, looking at him with a queasy look on his face.

On purpose, he opens his mouth wide and Sam squeals, hiding his eyes behind his hands. Dean smirks, standing up and putting the plates in the sink before rushing to the door. "Be good for Bobby, okay? And if he has to work today, you know what to do."

"Go to Linda's. I know."

"Good boy," he says before he freezes. _Good boy._ Nope. Not going there. "Bye, Sammy!"

"Bye, Dean." 

He waves and rushes out the door. It's warm outside, but instead of the humidity from the past weeks, the air smells fresh. Crisp. Dean sighs, taking in a deep breath, the kind that fills your lungs and lets it out slowly. He's still smiling when he reaches Ash's little auto repair shop just outside of town. It's a shack basically. Not much different from an abandoned petrol station. A small building and to the right a garage looking thing, where they could roll up the door so the cars could drive in. 

The place looks closed. Ash must have stayed up all night again. Seriously, what's the dude going to do without him? Okay, so he has a cool side job that earns him hundred and thousand of dollars but still, he has a business and he holds a certain responsibility for it. Ash said it's just a front but still, it has to be a working front or else how believable can it be? Dean shakes his head as he put the key into the door of the office building. He turns it, pushing the door wide.

Walking inside, he turns on the light before plodding towards Ash's room at the back. It's quiet. He wonders what would be smarter. To open shop and start work or wake Ash up and face the grumpy guy? He decides to let the man sleep a little longer. He makes himself some coffee, probably smart to have some ready just in case Ash wakes up. The man is _definitely_ not a morning person. He doesn't think Jimmy can compare. He should ask next time.

Heading to the garage side of the building, he starts to work on the machine of the cars that he hadn't been able to complete yesterday. There's two left. And the client specifically asked for them to be ready by this evening. These business people are so demanding. It's like they think they're entitled or something. Dean shakes his head. This is probably why he wouldn't want to fix cars for a living. He rather saves his passion for it as a hobby before these Alphas ruin it for him.

Two hours passed in a blink of an eye. Dean is again sweaty and greasy all over, wiping his face with a rag he stuffed in the back pocket of his low-slung jeans. Looking down at himself, he thinks he looks like every porn fantasy of a mechanic. Sweaty, dirty and oily. He shudders as goosebumps rise all over his arm and the back of his neck. He used to have thoughts like this, even sexually objectify himself at times. He knows he's hot. He tapped asses everywhere he went. Boy, girls, cheerleaders, jocks. But now the thought makes him sick. 

He's done being a doll. He's done looking pretty for folks to gawk at. He's done bending over and let some dirty old man rape his ass. So he has feminine features. So what? He can't help it. It's not like he can make himself look manlier or more tough. Never say he never tried. In recent days he doesn't even bother anymore. It feels good to be covered in grease and dirt. For some reason, he feels safe behind it. 

But it's different his brain tries to supply. You can feel good about yourself without feeling guilty or wrong. Being born looking like a twink doesn’t mean you’re asking for it. It also doesn’t give others the right to use that against you. But he shuts it down. Who cares? He has Jimmy and that's enough. 

Are you sure? Or is it because he feels safe? A person behind a screen who can't hurt you? 

Will you shut the fuck up, brain? No one asked for your opinion.

Mood soured, he heads to Ash's room. It's time the man wakes up. Standing in front of his door, he knocks. "Ash?" he calls. No answer. He's expecting that. Slamming his fist harder against the hardwood, he calls louder. "Ash, it's twelve o'clock. The sun will be shining on your ass if you ever open your windows. Time to wake up." He waits. Still nothing. Sighing, he places his hand on the knob and turns it. As usual, it's unlocked. He opens the door and peers in. "Ash!" he calls.

The room is dark. It takes a while before his eyes get adjusted to the dimmed light. Even the bright sunlight barely filters in through the thick drapes over the window. The computer is still on, so is the laptop but the screens are showing the desktop wallpaper. He frowns. In the many times he'd been in Ash's room, those screens are alway occupied, downloading or processing something or other. He scans the room, finally landing on the heap on the bed. 

Ash is lying face down in his pillow, one hand dangling off the bed, fingertips just touching the floor. Dean rolls his eyes and approaches the man. Landing with a plop on the bed, he pulls his legs up and crosses them in front of him. He waits, wondering if his proximity and less than subtle landing is enough to wake the man up. "Hey, Ash!" he calls. The man ignores him. Either that or he's in a very deep sleep. "Hello? Wakey wakey," he tries, using his waking-Sam-up voice.

Still nothing. Growing concern, he leans closer and shakes the man's shoulder. "Hey, Ash. It's noon. I know you're the owner and everything, but you still have a business to attend to. Forms to sign off. I don't know, show your face a little?" Still no response. Frustrated, he flips the man over. Ash flops like a graceless fish onto his back, head lolling. There's dried saliva stain at the corner of his mouth. Ugh. He slaps Ash's face lightly. Gross or not, the man is still his boss.

"Ash?" Nothing. In the dim light, Dean can just make out how slack his muscles seem to be and now that he thought of it, when he turned him around, Ash felt heavy. Too heavy. Deadweight heavy. "Ash?!" His heart suddenly starts beating like a maniac. Something is wrong. His face is pale. Scarily pale. There's almost no color left on his lips. Leaning closer, he watches as his trembling hand moves over the man's face. Please let him be breathing. _Please._

He waits. And waits for the hot puff of air to hit his open palm but there's nothing. Shaking like a leaf now, he slides his hands to Ash's pulse point beside his jaw. He checks, moving his fingers here and there. He tries to be calm but every second that goes by without the reassuring thump, he can feel his panic rises. His throat is so dry now he's swallowing like a goldfish, mouth opening and closing as he forces himself to breath. 

No no no no no _no, please._

He doesn't realize he'd been muttering that out loud until he hears these soft panicky sounds in the room. His hands are shaking so hard. Ash's blank face stares back at him, his body limp and motionless and it's then that it strikes him, hard like a freight train that the man is dead. Ash is fucking dead. 

He scrambles backward, almost falling off the bed in his hurry. And then he did fall over, landing on his ass on the wooden floor, half of his legs still hanging above him on the bed. He shuffles backward wanting to put as much space between them as possible, eyes wide and staring, unable to leave the eerily pale face. Ash looks like he's sleeping, peaceful and comfy if it were not for the fact that he's as white as a sheet. 

Dean doesn't know how far he scoots back until his back hit the something hard. The knobs on the drawers poke into his flesh, and still he tries to shuffle backward, bowlegs scrambling in front of him, trying to find purchase. His breathing is loud in his ears, gasping and panicky. He's still repeating the same words. No no no no no. 

He doesn't know how long he stays like this, staring at the body in front of him, shaking his head in denial until he feels something vibrates in his pocket. Still completely shaken up, he pulls out his phone unseeingly. He doesn't even bother to see who messaged him. Opening his contact list, he scrolls down to M and dials Mr. Awesomeness. Subconsciously, he knows he should be calling Bobby but somehow, part of him knows that the reason Ash is dead is because of what he told him yesterday. 

Someone found him. Someone _murdered_ him. 

"Gabriel?" he whispers, voice hoarse like he hadn't been using them for years. 

"Deano! What do I owe the pleasure?" The man is cheerful like usual, and it feels so wrong in the wake of things. 

"Something happened, Gabe." His voice is trembling, shaky and it sounds like he's crying. He touches his face, only then noticing the wetness on his fingers. 

"What happened?" Gabriel asks, his voice turning sharp and serious. 

"Ash is dead."

"What the fuck?" he curses. "Where are you?" 

"At the auto repair shop. Ash is dead, Gabe. Ash is fucking dead!" His panic finally surges over, threatening to overwhelm him. He stares around the room, suddenly paranoid that whoever did this is still around. He pushes himself up on shaky legs and stumbles to the door. He locks it before running around the room, tearing open wardrobes and checking under the bed, anywhere a person could possibly hide.

Once he's sure that no one else is in the room, he slumps back down on the floor in a corner as far away from the bed as he can. Gabriel had been muttering something or other over the phone but in his haste, Dean isn't able to make sense of what he's hearing. What he hears before the line is cut off is Gabe saying, "I'll be there in 5 minutes. Sit tight and lock the doors." Then it's silence. 

"Gabe?" he whispers before wrenching the phone away from his ear to stare unbelievably at the blank screen. Okay, okay. Just get it together, Dean. Gabe is coming. Just stay where you are. You'd already check the room. There's no one around. Whoever had been here is long gone. You're safe. You're safe. Dammit, you're safe so stop shaking like a little girl and be a man like your dad trained you. 

Dean pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around his legs, curling into a small ball. Fuck. 

That's how he stayed until Gabriel bangs on the door, yelling for him to open up. It's then that he's able to uncurl himself, coaxing his numb legs to move and opens the door. Gabriel rushes in, long blonde hair messy and a somber expression on his face. The usual mischievous glint in his eyes is gone, replaced by the steely ones Dean experienced when they first met. The champagne color of his eyes falls flat when they move over Ash's dead body.

"Oh God."

Gabriel rushes forward, checking his pulse and placing his hand over his nostril. Dean stands by and watches, closing the door softly as he did. It feels safer to be in a closed space. No surprises. No one lurking behind him. Lifting Ash up, Gabriel pulls the man's shirt over his head. He checks his chest, his neck before taking his arms and checking his veins. Then, he crouches down by the bed and turns Ash’s head to the side and pushes his hair back, checking behind both ears. 

"Damn," he curses, sitting back on his heels. 

"What?"

"Did he said anything to you yesterday?" Gabriel asks, ignoring his question. Dean nods. "What did he told you?"

"Everything."

" _Everything?_ What everything?”

“Lucas. The hit.” 

"Did he told you who is behind it?"

Dean shakes her head no. "Ash knew who it was, but when I asked, he wouldn't tell me. He said it safer for me not to know.” Eyes widening suddenly in fear, he exclaims. “Oh god, was he killed because of it? What if whoever killed him thought I knew? Will he come for me? What if he drops by the house? Sammy! I have to go back. I have to warn them. Bobby-"

"Dean, stop. The person who did this got what he wanted."

"How do you know that?!"

"I know who did this and trust me, he's got ways to make people spill," Gabriel says gravely, looking at Ash's body.

"Torture?" Dean is not proud by the way his voice got an octave higher. "But- but Ash looks like he's sleeping!"

"Not all torture can be seen physically, Dean. This man has methods. He attacks from the inside." Gabriel sits on the edge of the bed and lifts Ash's arm, pulling it taut and holds it close to the light from the laptop. "Look," he says, nodding his head at where his fingers are pressing on the skin on Ash's vein. Dean really doesn't want to, feel much safer with his back against the wall in his corner but he's curious. He walks closer, a foot away from the bed and squints. 

Gabriel rolls his eyes and indicates the small red dot on Ash's arm. "See this? Know what it is?"

"It looks like a needle mark. The kind that druggies used to inject themselves with heroin. But- Ash doesn't do drugs. He smokes weed now and then but he doesn't do hardcore stuff," he says shaking his head. 

"I know. Ash didn't do this. Whoever it was first subdued him with a tranquilizer," Gabriel moves his hand to the hair behind Ash's ear, pushing it out of the way so that Dean could see the needle mark there. "Then, the real torture starts. He uses drugs and poisons to play with the victim." 

Dean winces at the use of the term 'victim'. It's Ash. They both knew the guy. Victim sound so callous and general. It's not right. "It would feel like you're burning from the inside. Your blood acts against you, rebelling underneath your skin. It's a terrible form of torture. There's no escape from the pain. I’m sorry to say but Ash died a long, painful death."

Gabriel lets go of the man's hand, bowing his head low as if in respect. Then, he's moving off the bed. "I've seen this handiwork before. If I’m correct in my judgment, then we're in big trouble. The man who did is a professional. Never caught. Never spent a day in jail. Never prosecuted. There was never enough evidence for the case to go to trial.”

Dean frowns, staring at the needle marks. Before he can argue, Gabriel interrupts him saying, “Yes, we see the little holes, but he has ways to make any traces of the poisons and drugs disappear. We suspect some form of strands he concocted that counter the drugs he used and erased their existence. To be honest, we were never sure he used drugs to begin with. But if it's not drugs then these doesn’t make sense,” he motions at the small markings. “And we can't account for the deterioration of the internal organs either.”

"Who? Who is it?"

"You've never heard of the man. He was on the news before you're born. On every paper and every television screen. They called him Father Death. Because he's like the death reaper. Once he's onto you, you're dead. There was nothing anyone can do to stop him. I wasn't born yet at the time, but I remembered him because my dad was obssessed with catching him. See, my dad was the agent on the case." He smiles then. "Guess being on the force is part of the family's legacy. My dad's dad. My great great grandfather and so on."

"My dad was the one to arrest him. They found him in his house, still as a statue. He was quiet. Very quiet it creeped my dad out. He's like death personified himself. My dad’s words.” He shrugs. “Either way, they got him," Gabriel continues. He takes a deep breath before letting it out in a soft sigh. "Or at least, they _had_ him," he murmurs. 

“What happened?” Dean prods when it seems like Gabriel isn’t going to continue.

“One day he was in jail. The next he was gone. The public outrage was instantaneous. People higher up needed someone to take the heat. So lead detective took the full brunt.”

“Your dad?”

Gabriel nods. “My dad.”

"They still didn't know how Father Death did it, though. Some people say it’s dark magic- you don't mess with Death they said, but dad suspected someone on the force was dirty. Seemed more logical anyway. Dad never got close to him since. Of course, he was also demoted, so there’s that. He never did believe Father Death stopped killing. He’s just better at staying hidden.”

"And he's here? In Sioux Falls? If he had stayed in shadows for so long, why resurface? Why here? Why now?"

Gabriel gives him a long look before shifting his eyes away uncomfortably and shrugs. Looking down at Ash, he says. "We wouldn’t know for sure if it’s him until we get the autopsy report."

"What does he wants?"

"What everyone else wants. The million dollar."

"But even if he does know who holds the contract, he doesn't where Lucifer is. Does he?" Dean asks, suddenly afraid. If he could find Ash, what makes him think he couldn't find Lucifer? And if he finds Lucifer, he finds Castiel. And the man is a professional killer! One who doesn’t seem to have any qualms torturing to get what he wants. "We need to find him!"

"Who? Lucifer? Yes, preach to the choir."

"No! Whoever killed Ash."

"It's not that easy. The man has been in the dark for so long he had perfected the art of being invisible. No one knows where he is at a specific point in time. We only know after the fact when we found the bodies he left behind. By then, he'd already long gone."

"Maybe he's still here."

"Why would he still be here, Dean. He'd already gotten what he wanted. There's no reason for him to stay."

"So what? You're just going to give up? What the hell kind of special forces are you?"

Gabriel turns steely eyes at him, expression dead serious. "To find him, we first need to find Lucifer."

"Yeah? Good luck with that. You've been searching for the man for how long now? Three fucking months and we haven't seen the bridge of his nose." Dean knows he's being unreasonable, but he can't control it. His emotions are running high. The fact that someone he knows is dead, right under his very nose, and there's a crazy murderer on the loose hunting for someone someone that Castiel is traveling with. No, this is just crazy. Abso-fucking-lutely crazy. 

"Don't write me off so soon yet, Deano," Gabriel says as he plucks out a pair of white plastic gloves and pulls them on, kneeling by the bed beside the laptop. Turning the laptop around, he starts to fiddle with it. He runs through programs after programs, scanning the disks and hard drive; his face growing grimmer by the second until finally, he slams the laptop shut. He moves on to the computer screen, leaning down to type on the keyboard; harsh light from the screen glinting off his golden colored eyes. 

"Fuck!" he curses pushing up as he runs a hand through his shaggy blonde hair. "He wiped everything."

Of course, he did. It's like every spy film Dean had ever watched. All the cliche are real. Except the heroes in the movies are more capable than the one standing in front of him. Where's James fucking Bond when you need him? 

"What do we do now?"

" _We_ don't do anything. I'm going to call the FBI and get them down here to clear the scene. _You_ are going home where you will stay until further notice."

"But-"

"Dean, there's nothing for you here. The best you can do is sit tight until this is over. I'll keep you updated."

"But, Gabe-"

"Have I failed you the last time?"

Dean bites his tongue. "No," he answers. 

"Then, trust me. I'll get Castiel back safe. And we'll find the man that did this," he says, eyes sad as he glances at the body on the bed. "Ash is a good man. A stubborn, free love hippie. But a good man. He doesn't deserve this." Gabriel shakes his head. "He should have come to me when he sensed danger. Lucifer wasn't the only reason I'm here. I offered him protection, you know?" He snorts. "But of course, Dr. Bad-Ass depends on no one." 

"He said he was invisible."

"No one is truly invisible. You just need to know where to look."

Dean nods. "I'm sorry, Ash," Dean murmurs. 

Gabriel pats him on the shoulder comfortingly as he takes out his phone. "You're okay to go home?" he asks before putting the phone to his ear. “Or do you want me to send someone to bring you back?”

Dean shakes his head. “I’ll walk home. I need some fresh air. Clear my head.”

Gabriel gives him a thumbs up before he starts talking into the receiver, turning around to speak privately. Dean gives Ash one last look before exiting the room. 

He doesn't remember walking through the hallway and into the front office. The next thing he knows, the glaring sun is burning down on his cold chilled skin. He feels clammy as he squints in the glare. A sudden lightheadedness overwhelms him. He rushes to the side of the building, bent over and emptied his stomach; last night's fried rice, the beer, orange juice and pancakes. Everything. Maybe even a lung. He hacks and coughs, vomits like he never did before. Not even when he's crazy wasted. 

When it feels like he'd puke his guts out, he collapses with his back against the brick wall. He's sweaty, and there's leftover puke clinging at the corner of his mouth, on his chin. He wipes them away, before blearily pushing himself from the wall. His legs are unsteady, but he manages to walk without falling. He wipes the sweat off his brows. Fuck. What's wrong with him? It's not like he'd never seen a dead body before. He'd seen people getting killed in front of him, for crying out loud!

Ash's body compared to Gordon is like heaven and hell. Gordon had been disfigured, his face nothing but a messy pile of disintegrating flesh, eyes hanging out of their sockets. It's stuff made of nightmare. But Dean wasn't queasy or sick to his stomach, hell, he felt justified. The man deserved what he got. The only regret he felt was that Castiel's the one who had to pull the trigger.

With Ash, though, it felt wrong. He doesn't know how to describe it, but it felt too close to home. Someone he knew is dead. Killed. Murdered. Taken before his time. Just like that. It’s unnerving. He’s scared.

Were you scared when Gordon was killed? No. Were you terrified of his killer? No. You slept with him. You _loved_ him. So what makes this different? Gordon was killed too. Died prematurely. He was also a human being. He had a mother and father. Had a family. So why do you feel this way about Ash’s murder and not Gordon’s?

Because it’s like comparing apples and pears! That man is a monster. He raped. He killed. He took pleasure in the sick things he did. 

Does that justify killing him? 

Fuck, Dean doesn't know anymore. He was so sure at the time that what Castiel did was right. He had to. To save them. But seeing Ash dead, know that he was murdered put a new perspective into place. Dean is legit terrified of Father Death. How cold could a person be to wittingly, purposefully end a human life?

Castiel did. But it was in self-defense! You can say that all you want but you know as good as I do that he stood there, in front of an unarmed man and emptied those bullets into the man’s skull. You saw him. You saw the hatred in his eyes. The break in his psyche. 

But he had to do it. For us.

Did he?

What does this mean?

You tell me. 

No. You shut up. Castiel is not guilty. 

He is. 

No, he's not. 

_He is._

NO!

Hypocrite.

Fuck. He doesn't want to think anymore, focuses instead on the road ahead of him, feet taking one step after the other in the direction of home. He’s staring so determinedly at his feet that it takes him a moment before he realizes that he's almost home; could see Bobby's house in the distance. 

Sam is standing at the front of the house with Kevin. They're both talking to a man. Dean picks up his pace. He doesn't recognize the person. Where's Linda? He's almost there when Sam looks up and sees him. His face brightens, and he starts to wave. The man notices his arrival and mumbles something he couldn't hear to the boys before taking off.

Now, isn't that suspicious as fuck? 

He runs up to Sam, but the man had round the corner and disappeared from sight. "Who were you talking to? What did I tell you about stranger danger, huh? And where's Linda?"

"Mom's at home. Sam forgot his books, so she went to get them for him," Kevin pipes up, glancing worriedly at Sam. "And he wasn't a stranger. Sam recognized the man."

"What? How? Did you saw that man before?" he demands. Sam nods. He's pale, eyes wide and terrified. His little lips are trembling. Feeling like an ass, he crouches down in front of his little brother and takes his hands in his. "Hey, buddy. You're not in trouble. It's okay. Sorry, I got mad."

Sam shakes his head. "No. I'm not scared of you," he whispers. "I'm scared of _him_ ," he says staring at where the man had disappeared. 

"Do you know the man?" he asks, worried. Anger bubbles in his chest. Did the man do something to his little brother? He'll kill him.

"No," Sam murmurs so softly, head bows so low it's hard for Dean to hear him. He leans closers when Sam continues to speak. "But I've seen him before."

Dean wracks his brain trying to pinpoint if he'd seen the man in passing. There's no way Sam knew the man, and he doesn't. Ever since Lawrence, Sam became quieter, kept more to himself. The only time he let loose was when he's with Dean or at the Trans. Even the few times they went to the park, Sam refuses to socialize with the other kids. Dean knows it's going to be a problem soon especially when school starts. Well, at least, he'd made a friend in Kevin. 

His brain fails to come up with any recollections, so Dean is resorted to asking. "Why are you afraid of him?"

Sam stares up at him with large, scared eyes. He looks like he'd seen a ghost. Maybe he did because he next thing he says makes the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stands on end. 

"I saw him. In my dreams. He was the killer, Dean."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I scared myself writing this, and my roommate keeps barging in at inopportune time, making me jump out of my skin. God. I'm not fit to write horror. Like at all. *This isn't even horror!*


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: Changed Malachi's character to Death :) Nothing's changed except the name and character description. See Chapter 10 when Gabriel talks about Father Death and Chapter 11 when Dean describe the stranger that talks to Sam.

"What do mean, Sammy? What are you saying?"

"That man, Dean! He's the man who killed the computer guy!"

"Computer guy? What- Sam, you're not making any sense." Dean tries to stay rational, sensible but his little brother is freaking out, tears starting to form in his eyes, the tip of his nose tinged red. "Don't cry, Sammy," he shushes, rubbing his little hands with his own.

"The computer guy. The one with the weird hair. Sam said he wasn't moving, but he's not dead. And then he was dead. The Creepy Night Terror," Kevin pipes up, staring at Sam with wide, worried eyes. "Sam swears it was real. He saw it with his own eyes. But then I asked him where he is, and he looked around and said he was with me, in my room. So it couldn't be real. But Sam was sure. So I pinched him." Kevin looks down guiltily. "But it proved he was dreaming! Because he said ouch! So I was right. It's not real, Sam. It was a dream."

"But that man!" Sam cries, pointing. "He's the killer! Dean, he killed the computer guy! He did!"

Sam is full-fledged crying now, big drops of tears spilling from his eyes and down his face. Dean pulls him into his arms and lifts him up, carrying him into the house. Kevin follows silently behind, still staring at his friend, worrying his bottom lips. He must have picked up the habit from Sam.

Entering the kitchen, Dean puts Sam on the dining room chair and crouches in front of him, hands on his thighs. "Sammy, it's okay. I'm here. The man is gone. I won't let him hurt you. Or anybody else," he adds when he sees Sam riling up ready to cry again. "Can you tell me about your dream? Everything. From the beginning until you woke up." And Sam did. The entire time, Dean listened with increasing trepidation. The way he described the scene, even the little details like the color of the bedsheet, the images on the screens, to the time on the clock, no dream he ever had was this clear, this distinctive. It's _wrong_.

The hair on the back of his neck stood when he heard about the tortures, the silent screams, the tears, the blood and the saliva. It seems so real, and this tingling feeling at the back of his head won't stop niggling at him, telling him to think, to connect. There's something here he's missing apart from the fact that his brother is having violent dreams like this. His heart is thudding wildly in his chest and fear chills him to his bones. 

The words coming out of Sam's mouth are of his usual vocabulary, but what those words were saying sounds so wrong on his brother's lips. The range of words he used are still limited for him to be able to describe the dream as would an adult, but it's enough to paint a vivid picture, and it scares the crap out of Dean. This is different from the other nightmares Sam had. This is a whole new dimension of creepy and when Sam described the computer guy, the shirtless, thin man with a weird haircut; short in front long at the back, the bottom of his stomach sinks.

"Ash?" he whispers, voice so hoarse he sounds like a dying man in the Sahara.

"Who?" Sam asks, stopping his story abruptly. 

"Was there posters of women in the room? On top of the bed?" Dean asks, fear clutching his heart in a tight grip. What the fuck is happening? Sam's eyes widen as he nods. "Was there a laptop and a computer?" Again, Sam nods. His legs are unable to support him anymore, and Dean falls on his ass on the floor in front of Sam, weak from the influx of information. Sam saw Ash getting murdered. Sam saw the killer. But how? That's ridiculous not to mention impossible. He DID NOT just entered the Twilight Zone. 

A thought hits him hard, and he almost swallows his tongue in his haste to blurt out, "What did the man say? What did the man want?" Did he know what Sam saw and is now, here to kill the witness? Is Sam in fucking danger? Gabriel's words come back to haunt him. The man is like a shadow. His kills are precise and undetectable. He is insane. He doesn't stay in the same place after a kill. But the man's still here. At his fucking doorstep. What else can it be? He's going to kill Sam!

"He asks me if I slept well," Sam is saying before Dean frantically grabs his hands, pulling it taut in front of him and checks both his arms. Seeing nothing, he pushes Sam's floppy hair aside and checks the back of his ears. Nothing. 

"Did he prick you with anything?" he asks, staring at Sam and then Kevin. "Did he gave you anything? A drink? Food?"

Kevin shakes his head. Sam just stares at him, eyes wide and afraid. "You mean like with needles?" 

"Yes! Needles. How do you know that?"

"That's what he used to make the computer guy scream and bleed."

"Jesus fuck." Dean grips his hair tight and pulls. He must look like he's losing his shit. No wonder Kevin looks so scared. 

"Don't curse, Dean." 

And Dean almost laughs, he did. Pulling Sam into his arms, he hugs his brother tight. "Sorry," he murmurs. "It's a dream, Sam. You dream of people you saw before. You dreamt of Cas. You dreamt of me. Maybe you saw the man from somewhere before, and you've forgotten about it. But your mind doesn't. It's not weird that you dreamt about him. It sucks that your dreams are so violent, but most nightmares are." He pulls back, pushing the strand of hair back from Sam's eyes. "It was just a dream. Don't worry about it. By lunchtime, you'd have forgotten about it. Right, Kevin? You're going to make sure Sam forgets about it?"

Kevin nods. "We could see who can complete the most math questions before lunch!" 

Sam grimaces, so does Dean. "Not fair. You're better at maths than me. We should do something with words. I like words. We should play Scrabble!"

"Okay," Kevin agrees amicably. 

"I'm going to beat your ass," whoops Sam. Dean gives him a stink eye, and Sam shrugs. "You say 'ass' all the time, Dean."

"Well, if Kevin starts talking like you and Linda hear it, don't blame me if she doesn't want her kid to hang out with you anymore." 

Kevin giggles. "Don't worry, Dean. I won't. Mom will pull my ears off if I do that."

"Mom will do what?" Linda's voice drifts through the now open door to their kitchen. Linda walks in holding a stack of books. 

Dean stands up. "Hey, Linda," he greets. "Can I talk to you outside for a bit?"

Linda frowns but nods, putting the books on the table and giving Kevin's forehead a kiss before following him outside. She stares at him with her sharp eyes, waiting. Dean gulps. Linda has a very stern mother vibe around her. It's very stereotypical of him to say this, but she's like the embodiment of the cliche Chinese mother seen on tv. Sharp tongue, traditional, very verbal and quick witted.

Even so, he can see how much she loves Kevin despite her strict background and values. He's all she have, her husband having died when Kevin was only a year old. Maybe that's why he and Sam get along so well. They both are raised by a single parent. In Sam case, his brother.

"A stranger was talking to them when I arrived. He looks like bad news," he says. Linda's eyes widen. "He scared them quite a bit. I don't want him anywhere near the kids again. I just want to let you know so you can keep an eye out for the man. If you see him, stay away, lock your doors and call Bobby." 

"Did he do something to the kids?" she asks, worried. 

"No. Not that I know of."

"What does the man looks like?"

"I can't really tell. I was still far away, but he's tall, very tall. He looks like he works at a funeral home. Full black suit, tie and everything. He also uses a walking stick. The man's thin, almost wiry. He has long black hair and a high forehead. I couldn't see his face, but I think he has dark eyes," he describes, trying to recall how the man's appearance. He's debating if he should have Sam talk to Bobby about this, maybe make a sketch of the person. But if what Gabriel said is true, then the police already knows what this person looks like. He should call Gabriel. 

"To be safe, do you think Sam can stay over at your place for the rest of today?"

Frowning, Linda asks. "Why? Is he in trouble?"

"No! Nothing like that. It's just the man approached them outside this house. If he's still loitering around here, I don't want to give him the chance to come near Sam again. Sorry, I'm just being overly protective." He feels guilty for basically lying through his teeth here, but he needs to make sure Sam is safe. If the man knew where Sam is living, it's better that Sam stays someplace else first. He did warn Linda about the man so that she won't be too unprepared. Though, he still feels bad for putting her and Kevin in danger. Sort of. 

"You don't have to tell me about being overly protective. I barely let Kevin out of my sight when he was a child. It's partially my fault why he's introvert at school. I kept him inside too much," Linda says, glancing into the kitchen where Sam and Kevin are chatting away. "I'm glad he has Sam. So don't worry. I'll take good care of him. Do you want me to bring him over to my place now?"

"Preferably, yeah. If that's not too much trouble," he adds. 

Linda waves him off. "Sam is a good kid. It's my pleasure to have him around. Save your thanks for when I need a favor back." She winks and walks to the door, calling out for Kevin and Sam. The two of them gathers around her, Kevin taking her hand in his. Dean smiles. 

"Be good for Linda, okay Sammy?"

"Of course," Sam says, looking offended. Dean snorts, shaking his head. 

"Okay, then. I'll see you in a bit, alright kiddo?" he says, attempting to brush Sam's hair as he walks by but get his hand pushes away for his effort. 

Sam makes a face at him as he walks away before throwing an, "I love you, Dean" over his shoulder. Dean smiles and waves, shouting, "Backatcha, buddy!" He watches them until they disappear into Linda's house. Then, he pulls out his phone to call Gabriel. But before he's able to ring the number, his phone vibrates. He stares at the caller ID. Bobby.

"Bobby, what's up?" he asks once he answered the phone.

"Dean," his tone is serious, adding to the sense of foreboding he'd had since this afternoon. "We need you to come down to the station."

"What? Why? Is this about Ash?"

"Ash? No. How did you know about Ash? The FBI just informed us about- Oh balls," he hears a smack on the other end of the line before Bobby is back. "You're working today." There's a long pause before Bobby curses. "Balls! I'm sorry, kid." Dean doesn't say anything back. "Are you still at the shop?"

"No. I was told to come home."

"Are you alright?"

"No, Bobby. I'm not alright. Things are reeling out of control. I thought all these craziness are behind us, but- it feels like it's neverending. This crippling fear that something is going to go wrong wouldn't ever leave me. I'm scared, Bobby. I'm scared for Sammy and- fuck!" He breaks off, taking a deep breath. It's quiet on the other side. Sighing, he asks. "If it's not about Ash, why are you calling, Bobby?"

Again, that long pause. "I'm sending someone to the house to fetch you."

"Why?"

"I think it's better if I tell you when you're here."

Cold fear seeps into his heart, and it feels like time stops for a while. "What is it, Bobby?" he asks, voice hard; steely. He swallows, waiting.

There's the sound of muffled arguing on the other side of the line before he hears a sigh and Bobby is speaking. "We've identified the person the blood in the car belonged to. Dean, it's your dad."

\---

"No way, you're not doing this alone!"

"Don't be stupid, Michael. I can take care of myself. I don't need you to babysit me."

"This is a suicide mission!"

"Why? Death knows who holds the contract. Meg can bring me to him. We _need_ that fucker dead. Or we'll never be safe!"

"How can you be sure that Death knows? All you have is Meg's word. She could be lying. Of course, she's lying!"

Lucifer flings his hands up, fed up with this conversation. He can't fight with Michael when the man is in draped in blankets looking very much like a drowned kitten. Currently, Michael is sitting on the couch in the living room, near the window, blanket almost swallowing his whole frame. He looks like a petulant child, the top of his cheek red with anger and his eyes overly bright from the fever that still wouldn't go down. 

The last two days had been hell for Lucifer. His heart can't survive another round of Michael's temperature rising at an alarming rate before returning to his not-so-normal-but-also-not-so-dangerous level. The first time it happened, he almost killed Meg in his frantic worry before he hauled ass back to the man and tossed him into another icy bath. Which is another thing that is not good for his health.

Now that he'd seen the brand, Michael has no qualm in him seeing him naked- okay, so maybe he's too delirious to care, and then Lucifer had an armful of _naked Michael!_ Like fuck yes, and hell no. One part of him is going crazy with concern. He'd never nurse so much in his entire life, not even when he was in the battlefield when they had to carry wounded soldier back to camp. He fussed over Michael like one would fuss over their sick child. Luckily, during episodes like this Michael is too out of it to be aware of his clinginess.

But then there's the other part of him. The one that keeps showing up between his legs. The one that insisted Lucifer paid attention to it. Draping his arms around Michael's body, lifting him from the bed to the bath, he can't help but take pleasure in the way the man molds perfectly into his arm. He's heavy as fuck and massive compared to the girls he's used to doing this for, Lilith for example, but Michael felt right. Like a piece of puzzle slotting into place.

He doesn't remember ever being this sappy, or out of control of his emotions. How did Michael bring this ungodly side of him out into the open, he'll never know. 

"What are you suggesting?" he asks, going back to their old dance when it comes to arguments. 

"I'm coming."

Lucifer has a weird moment of wanting to grip his hair and pulls it out like a freaking mad scientist. "Look at you, Michael! You can barely take care of yourself. If you're coming, you're just a burden to me. You can't help."

Michael flinches back like he'd been slap. He looks down at himself before throwing the blanket off. "I'm fine," he says, stubborn as usual. His body shivers and his shoulder goes up around his neck stiffly. 

"No, you're not," Lucifer argues, walking over and draping the blanket around the man again. Michael snuggles into the blanket in relief. 

"Okay, fine. Then, I suggest we wait until I get better before we go after Death. We have Meg. There's no rush. We can hide out here until I'm fit again."

"That's going to take weeks."

"So Meg says. Why do you trust her so much?" 

"Because I have eyes. You're not fit. And you don't look like you're going to magically recover in a few days time. Besides, Meg is in this for herself."

"I don't trust her."

"I do." A deep rough voice joins in on the conversation. Lucifer turns around to see Castiel shuffling into the room, one arm over the crutch. "We need the information death has. Meg is our way to do it. And if we can help her while doing it, then I’m all for it."

"Cassie, Meg is a snake. She's manipulating you, using your experiences to gain sympathy. Don't trust her. Actually, don't trust anyone in this business," Lucifer advises. Castiel's face grows hard, the blue of his eyes reaching a piercing note. For awhile there, the boy looks terrifying. Lucifer swallows. 

"Don't tell me what to do, Lucifer," he growls. "You don't control me anymore."

Michael looks between them, a concerned expression on his face. Lucifer puts up his hands in surrender. "Okay. Do whatever you want. But seeing your current condition, you're not fit to go on a job. Both of you aren't," he says, looking back at Michael meaningfully. Since when did he sign up for a team? He used to go on solo missions, well not so much after he met Michael but there were still times when he went on a mission alone. What's up with the gang mentality? 

"Look, the plan is simple. Meg will tell me where I can find Death. I will go there, interrogate the man, get my answers and kill him. Simple."

Michael is already shaking his head before he even finishes. "Not so simple. Death is getting more and more paranoid with his old age. He will never tell Meg where he is. And even then, he'll probably need some form of visual confirmation. He'll never do it through the phone. Problem one, Meg will be coming with you. And you need someone to watch her."

"I'll do it," Castiel volunteers, putting down the crutch and standing up straight, walks to the couch beside Michael. "It's just a flesh wound, and I'm already healing. A few painkillers and I'll be fine. Let me come. I'm almost done with my training anyway. The only thing left is field experiences. What better way to do that than this?" he says as he slowly lowers himself into the seat. "Please, Luci?"

Castiel is looking at him with those puppy dog eyes, his face sincere and earnest. On the other side, Michael is looking at him with an I-know-I'm-right expression per usual and he finds his resolve caving. "Fine. You can come. But all you're doing is guard Meg. Once we get confirmation of Death's location, you are to stay with Meg. Understand?" 

Castiel nods. "I understand," he says in his usual monotone.

"Okay, now that's settled-"

"Nothing is settled. That's just problem one. Death specialized in drugs and poison. He works behind the scenes. You're not trained for that sort of adversary. Your knowledge of drugs alone is insufficient, not to mention the precaution needed to face Death."

"You're still alive," he mutters.

"That's because we got the antivenom in time. And we did not see this coming," Michael is quick to add. "I was not prepared."

"Well then, tell me what precaution to take and I'll do it. I will read up on Death's file like I do any other assignment. This shouldn't be that difficult."

"You're underestimating your foe again, Luke. This is why I can't trust you to go alone."

"You're not coming, Michael."

Michael glares at him from his place on the couch. Standing up abruptly, he nods in the direction of his room. They- or Lucifer, cleaned it yesterday and since then, Michael had been resting in his own room much to his dismay. But Lucifer did manage to make an excuse of keeping an eye out on him to inject himself into the man's personal space, something Michael is not above complaining loud and clear about. Well, too bad for him, Lucifer had thick skin and is shameless so he can suck it. 

"Can I speak to you in private?" Michael asks. Without the blanket eating him up, he's sure Michael is exuding an intimidating aura, chest out and back stiff, shoulders back. But right now, the whole look just got lost in those thick yet soft sky blue duvet.

Lucifer rolls his eyes and shrugs, heading for Michael's room. He hears the man following behind him, the soft rustle of the blanket over the wooden floor audible in the near silence. This high, the only thing they hear are the passing planes and occasional news chopper. It's peaceful, and the view is breathtaking. Once again, he's overcome by the feeling of regret that they might have to leave this place. He hopes not. He had come to think of this place as home. 

Just as he enters the room before he's able to turn around or say anything, a strong hand grips him by the shoulder, and a moment later, he finds himself being slammed into the wooden door. Hard. And then, he's unable to focus on anything else because Michael is pressed against him, chest to chest all the way down to their thighs. He must have thrown his blanket off sometime in between because he's only in a shirt and sweats- a shirt Lucifer is almost sure is his, and is staring him down with blazing blue eyes.

"I will not let you walk into danger alone," he says, voice hard.

Lucifer blinks, still unable to focus more than the fact that _Michael is pinning him to the door!_ His dick twitches in his jeans and that bring him back to the surface. He summons the worst images he has in his drive and plays them out in cinematic details. The mass murders, severed limbs, decomposing bodies and what not, everything he has to taper the stirring in his gut. The blank look on Lilith's face when he shot her. That kills his erection instantly. 

"What are we?" he asks. Michael frowns at him. "We're hired killers, Michael. Danger is part of the deal. We cannot escape them."

Michael's eyes waver, his strong brows furrowing. "I know," he says, voice rough. "Doesn't mean we can't try to minimize it. I don't want to wake up one day and learn that you died. I rather be there when it happens." Those blue eyes are shining too brightly, and this close he can see the water in them. Lucifer is very aware of Michael's hand on either side of his head, bracketing him in. "Why are you being so stubborn?"

"The same reason you are. I don't want you to get hurt," Lucifer says, for once voicing out what they both already knows. They _care_ about one another. It's damn time they admit it. At the frigging same time.

"Then how is it fair?" Michael snaps. "Why do you get to be selfish?"

"Me? Selfish? Wanting you safe and alive is selfish? Wow, you have some fucked up ideology, Michael."

"Yes. It's selfish when you're putting yourself in danger and leaving me behind to mourn you when you die. That is selfish!" Michael spits. 

They're so close now their noses are almost touching. If Lucifer wants, he can just move that tiny inch and closes their lips together. But he doesn't. Not now. Not yet. So instead, he smirks. "I didn't know you're such a pessimist. I'm not going to die, Michael. You forget who you're dealing with here. Ex-special forces with more mission success rate on my belt than anyone my age. You always say not to underestimate the enemy. Don't underestimate your partner too."

"It's a chance I can't take, Luke. Please," Michael begs. 

"Is this because I'm the only one who doesn't get revolted by the sight of your dick?" Lucifer challenges, knowing just what to say to hurt the most. He doesn't know why these words are coming out of his mouth, but it's out before he can stop it. And he knew he'd hit the jackpot because the look on Michael's face? It's something he'll never forget. 

The man flinches away. There's hurt behind those ocean blue eyes and the downward tilt of his lips. The looks last a moment before his face shuttered, trying to aim for neutral. But he couldn't do it. The mask shimmers for a while before disappearing altogether leaving Michael exposed, a shattered look on his face. At that point, Lucifer wants to take back everything he said that put this look on the man's face.

"I'm sorry," he says, reaching out to stop Michael from retreating further. But the man jerks out of his touch, movement stilted and stiff. 

"Don't touch me," he says, voice so soft and yet Lucifer is able to hear every word, every syllable. 

The man continues to step away from him. Lucifer swallows, realizing his mistake. He didn't mean it. He just wanted Michael to stop being so stubborn and put his life at risk. He just wanted him to stay where it's safe. Out of pure desperation, Lucifer reaches out again and this time, Michael takes a huge step back, eyes on the floor. He's breathing hard.

"Go," he says. Lucifer stares at the man, unable to make himself talk. His voice seems to be stuck in his throat. 

Without looking back up, Michael turns around and walks to the bathroom, closing the door behind him leaving Lucifer standing right where he left him, at the door, feeling miserable as fuck. The sound of a lock clicking into place snaps Lucifer out of his temporary paralysis. He pushes himself from the door. He achieved his goal. Michael is staying. It's a shitty way to get what he wanted but hell, if it keeps Michael safe, then it's worth the man hating him for it. He'll fix it when he comes back.

Taking a deep breath, he walks out the room in search for Castiel. Time to pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the angst. Dig in.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: Changed Malachi's character to Death :) Nothing's changed except the name and character description. See Chapter 10 when Gabriel talks about Father Death and Chapter 11 when Dean describe the stranger that talks to Sam.

"So, Death is in Sioux Falls?" 

"Yep." 

They all packed into the car, Lucifer in the front driving while Castiel and Meg stay at the back. With this setup, Castiel feels like he's sitting in a cab apart from the fact that Meg's hands are cuffed together in front of her, chained to the door handle. Meg is glaring out the window. Ever since this afternoon when they made the move, she'd been pissed. Partly because Lucifer stripped her and hosed her down in his bathroom before clothing her in Castiel's clothes; a very loose fitting jeans that had a tie through its belt loops just so that it'll stay on and a very ugly t-shirt. A blanket covers her mismatched outfit as well as those cuffed wrists and ankles. 

He tried to stop Lucifer, but the man was adamant. Meg is poison, and it's better to be safe than sorry. He didn't want to take any risk she might have something hidden in her sleeves or anywhere on her body. Castiel knows it's a precaution that needed to be taken, but he still couldn't stand watching. Meg is a woman, even if she's a man, all human have rights to some form of decency. But Lucifer argued that Meg had spent time in jail and any rights she has had before flies out the barred windows. 

Meg was cursing and spitting in the shower, where she was cuffed to the faucets. He heard her while he waited outside and when Lucifer dragged her screaming and kicking out the bathroom, still cuffed, he's quick to throw them the clothes he'd picked out. They're the smallest size he could find. He didn't stay and watch as Lucifer forced the clothing on Meg. Instead, went back out to his room to pack. 

He'd never pack for a job before though Michael did tell him what he would need. Always pack light, that's the golden rule. And only the necessity. Gun. Ammo. Knife. That should cover him for both melees and ranged combat. Depending on the kind of job, whether they're keeping hostages or going for the kill, he would need restraining items. Tie-rips and cuffs. He packed them both, just in case Meg does manages to break out of them. Clothes are the least necessary, but he does pack a few underwear. Who know how long this job will take?

Lucifer called a car rental company for a car. Never use your own car during a job. You'll want to keep your car when the job is over. The plan was that Lucifer will drive them throughout the day and Castiel will take over at night. It's almost a 10 hours drive. It's going to take awhile. And now that he can drive, Lucifer wants to maximize on that so that they can reach Sioux Fall as soon as possible. Which is another thing that makes his heart beat just a little bit faster.

They're going to _Sioux Falls_. That's where Dean is. 

He tries to tamp down on his excitement, but it feels as if his feelings has feet of their own and is running wild, completely disregarding his attempts at keeping them in balance. His heart soars at the thought of meeting Dean, even just a glimpse, to see how he's doing, to see those green eyes sparkle and those lips smile. But every thought like these are dampened by the fact that he's there on a job, not to sightsee, and the scary part is that a dangerous person is now residing in Sioux Falls. No matter how small the chance are that Death and Dean will meet, it's still something that worries him. 

He had tried to contact Dean earlier via Jimmy, but the teenager hasn't replied. He did keep his promise and sent him a link to youtube where he'd assembled a collection of Zeppelin's mix songs, so Castiel wasn't too disheartened at his silence. Dean must have been busy. He has a job, and it's not like he's sitting on his thumbs waiting for his texts. Still, he can't stop himself from checking his phone every so often, just in case Dean did reply. He must have done it more obsessively than he'd thought because even Meg noticed. She turns annoyed eyes at him and arched an eyebrow. He shrugs, storing his phone into his jeans pocket, determined not to pull it out anymore.

Before Meg can comment, Lucifer speaks up again. "What is he doing in Sioux Falls?"

Meg rolls her eyes and glares back out the windows. "I don't ask what Father does. He tells."

"What was the plan again? He told you to go here-" Lucifer points to the Navigation screen on his dashboard. "So what? Is he going to be there?"

"Like hell," Meg scoffs. "He probably left me something that will lead us to him."

"What's with the roundabout?"

"That's how Father works. Like it or not, you follow."

"Sounds like a paranoid old man to me."

"Better than being an impatient rookie," Meg shoots back.

Castiel takes in a deep breath as he slides further down his seat, tuning out the sounds of their voices. He'd stay with the man long enough and watched several epic battles between him and Michael to know that he has the capacity to hook Meg into a nonstop verbal spar for the next few hours. He hopes Meg is smart enough to see through his little tricks. Funnily enough, Lucifer never tried that with him. Either that or he couldn't get a rise out of Castiel without dredging up their past; something Lucifer is keen to forget and put behind him. At times, it almost feels like he's overcompensating. 

The sex was good. Different. Even though he stills bottom, he holds the power and Lucifer's merely in for the ride. Maybe he thinks by letting Castiel call the shots he's repaying for sins in Lawrence. He doesn't tell Lucifer that it's not necessary, that he never holds that against him. He doesn't know why he never voiced it out. Maybe subconsciously it felt good to feel like he's punishing the man, that in some way, he's standing up for himself, using him like he'd been used. 

He shakes his head, staring out the window at the clear blue sky. Who's he kidding? He was just desperate. A pathetic whimpering mess who need another's body to feel put together again. There's no higher reason for it. Just that. He closes his eyes and tries to sleep. Once Lucifer's shift is over, it's his turn. He needs all the rest he can get now.His hand slides over the bulk in his jeans. He hopes Dean replies. Soon. 

\---

As soon as the cruiser stops, Dean is out and on his feet in a minute. He stares at the modest two-story building it front of him. Sioux Falls PD. A wave of nostalgia threatens to drown him. He hadn't been back here since he was just a boy, not older than eleven or twelve. His eyes fill with tears, his feet failing him. This was back when his mom was still alive. He remembered how she used to take him here sometimes, to visit. Dad occupied a desk upstairs, opposite Bobby. He recalled how his dad would smile when Mary brought him his favorite dessert. Apple crusted pie. 

It feels odd to be here when his dad is not. His heart beats steadily in his chest. He had been procrastinating visiting Bobby at the station, even when Rufus asked him to bring over a file Bobby forgotten. He just can't bring himself to the place when his life was still normal. When he can still be a boy. When he still has his family. He swallows roughly, blinking back the tears. He puts on a brave face. This isn't the time to break down, Dean. You're here for dad. You haven't lost him yet. Don't lose him.

With that, he steps into the station. He doesn't recognize the person at the reception desk. They must have replaced Ellen. He walks up to the woman, who oddly enough is not in uniform, and waits for her to finish speaking on the phone before he voices out his purpose for being here. She looks young with long blonde hair and intelligent brown eyes. She has a smart-alec look about her, eeerily reminiscent of the older woman who used to sit at the desk. 

He clears his throat. "I'm here for Bobby Singer?" he asks uncertainly.

"What business do you have with Detective Singer?" she asks, pulling out a pen and a log book. 

"He's with me," the police who brought him here calls out from the entrance. Dean turns and smacks himself mentally. Of course, he should have fucking wait for the man. This is the police station. He can't just walk right in like he owns the place. Not like he used to anyway. Ellen would let him in. She knows him. He turns to look at the woman again, smiling apologetically. She just shrugs and slams the logbook shut before falling back into the chair there and put her legs up on the counter. 

Dean stares at her in disbelief. Actually, now that he looks more closely, the woman doesn't look much older than he is. Maybe three or four years max. Frowning, he's about to ask her what's her deal is when the officer reaches him and steers him towards the stairs. The blonde waves at him with a bored look in her eyes. Belatedly, he realizes she'd been chewing gum and is now blowing a massive bubble in front of her face, bursting it with a loud smack before blowing again. 

Dean climbs the stairs, unable to tear his eyes off her. She _doesn't_ work here. She can't be!

As soon as he steps onto the floor above, all thoughts of the blonde fly out of his head. The floor is crowded with people. He'd never seen the station this busy before. Men in suits littered the place, standing out like a sore thumb against the officers in uniform and those plain clothes detectives like Bobby and Rufus, who refused to be 'dressed up like Ken dolls'. They hardly meet the bureau requirement as it is, Bobby always in his Henleys and baseball cap and in winter, body warmer and plaids. The man has a wardrobe that is as exciting as watching paint dry. Sneakily, he thinks Rufus fits right at home with Bobby.

He glances around trying to see if he sees Gabriel in the midst of the people rushing about, but he doesn't see the blonde hair devil anywhere. Bobby and Rufus are walking towards him, looking sour-faced and grumpy, eyeing the Feds with a nasty look. When they're a few feet away from him, he hears Bobby complaining under his breath. "Taking over the department like bulldozing idjits."

"They're here to help, Bobby. And we have more important things to worry about. Let them deal with Ash's murder."

"I wouldn't mind so much if that's the case but they're meddling with John's affair too. Once our own, always our own and no one interferes with our people's business except us," Bobby says indignantly. 

"That makes it alright then. Just because you're part of the SFPD, you're entitled to stick your nose where it doesn't belong," Rufus snaps back sarcastically. 

"Yes! And don't forget the time you dig your nose and your whole ugly mug into my business," Bobby growls, shaking a finger in Rufus's face.

"Fine!" the man sighs, exasperated. "I'll buy a new car! Happy?"

"Not really. But good for you."

"Now can we focus on the case? Dean is here," Rufus says motioning in his direction.

The two of them finally stop in front of him. "Bobby?" Dean asks. "Is it true? Those blood in the car? Are they dad's?" His voice shakes as he asks and he clears his throat. All the way over, he can't stop thinking about what Bobby said over the phone. How could the blood be dad's? His dad has a car. He doesn't need to rent a car. And what is he doing back in Sioux Falls when he swore he'll never come back? And those case files? What did his dad get himself involved in?

"They've checked the blood sample twice. It's John."

"I don't understand," Dean says shaking his head. Then something very much like hope surges through him. "Is he back for us?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper. Bobby and Rufus stare at one another with an unreadable expression on their faces. Dean stares at them, not liking the look but not knowing what it can be or what it means. "Say something!" he demands.

"Why don't we get something to drink and talk in one of the rooms where it's quieter?" Bobby is staring at him with a meaningful look at the suits. Dean frowns, glancing around. Some of the agents have stopped in their tracks to watch, some quite obviously eavesdropping. When they catch him looking, they pretend to be immersed in what they're doing, going on with their business. Lowering his voice so that only Dean and Rufus could hear, Bobby says "They've been trying to get their dirty paws on you ever since the result came back identifying John as the donor. According to them, John is a 'person of interest'." 

"What? Why?"

"That's what we need to figure out. These shitheads wouldn't tell us anything."

Dean nods. "Okay. Lead the way."

Bobby and Rufus straighten up before walking to the back of the room. They make themselves a cup of coffee and grab a soda for Dean before going to the rooms at the back. It's an interrogation room. Dean stares at the reflective window, seeing his own pale and terrified expression looking back at him. "What if one of them is watching?" he asks, pointing at the two-way window. 

"Don't worry. We locked the room. And the camera is off," Rufus says indicating the camera in the corner.

"Okay. So what do we got?"

"Dean, I need you to be perfectly honest with me," Bobby says leaning on the side of the metal table in the center of the room, arms crossed in front of him. "Has John tried to make contact with you? Ever since you've arrived here?"

"What? No! You would have known. I would've told you!"

"Not when you think it will cause your dad trouble." Bobby stares at him solemnly. "He's in trouble, kid."

"What kind of trouble?" he asks, panicking. 

"I've told you. The files we find in the car are top secret. No one should have had access to these records. According to those big shots out there, there had been a security breach recently, and a bunch of files had been stolen. Guess who they think did it?"

"Dad?"

"Yep."

"But why would dad-" Dean stops, brain whirring. "This will only make sense if it has something to do with mom." Bobby and Rufus stare at one another again, both with a worried look on their face. "That's the only thing dad cares about," he explains, synapses snapping together too fast for his mouth to keep up. "The last thing I heard from dad- when I was still in Lawrence, was that he found out the reason my mom was murdered." 

"But-" Bobby starts to interrupt, but Dean shushes him.

"No buts. If we're trying to figure out why dad does this, we have to go into his line of thinking. He's sure mom was murdered. He said he found out why. These case files-" he says trying to keep up with his brain, "Where are they?" he demands. 

Bobby and Rufus look uncomfortable. "They're in the evidence room."

"Get it."

"Dean," Bobby warns. 

"The answers are in there. I know it! Please, Bobby. If dad is right and mom was indeed murdered, don't you want to know who? This is what dad has been looking for, these years and years of searching and obsession and he finally found something. Don't you think I have the right to know too? After I basically give up my childhood so dad could chase what you people called ghosts? And now that there's a good possibility that he was right, don't you think we owe him the benefit of the doubt for once in our life and look into it?" he explodes. 

He can't believe he ever doubted his dad. All those time when dad would come home from a lead with this disappointed look on his face, the resigned slump of his shoulder, the haunted look of a man who had seen better days; how many of those times did Dean thought- he never said it out loud, but the thought did flit through his mind. The nasty bitter thought. _He brought this on himself._ John lost his wife, but they lost their mother too. If only he would let go and see _them_ , maybe then he won't be so sad all the time. 

There were times when things were especially tough that Dean did resent his dad. When the night crept steadily on, and Sam was wailing and all Dean can do was tried to shush him. What does a 12-year-old know about caring for a kid? Then there was that time when Sam caught a fever, and he was home alone. He didn't dare called the neighbors for help, and he couldn't reach dad. The panic he felt, the helplessness. What about the times when he burnt himself trying to make a decent meal that was not microwaved? 

Yes, deep down he resented his dad sometimes. 

But now, all he can think of is that his dad might be right. All these time, these years where he was doubted, prejudiced, mocked and ridiculed; he was even fired from the force because of it, how lonely his dad must have felt. How isolated. Even his son stopped believing in him. How many times had the man doubted himself? How many times did Dean saw him crying when he thought no one is watching? 

He feels tears burn at the back of his eyes. Dad, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. Please don't be dead. Please give me a chance to be the son you deserve. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. 

Dean is shaking his head, tears springing in his eyes. A hand on his shoulder stops his inner chant. He looks up to see Bobby's face, hovering close, a worried look in his eyes and the set of his shoulders. "Bobby, please," he rasps out. "We need to check the files. Dad can't be dead. He can't be," he finally voices out the fear that's stuck with him ever since hearing the new. "We didn't find dad's body. He's alive. He's out there. And whoever is after him is the same person who killed mom. We find him we find dad. Please, Bobby. _Please._ "

Bobby stares at him with heartbroken blue eyes. "Okay, Dean. Okay," he says, nodding. 

\---

Lucifer is almost nodding off when the sound of something ringing rouses him. He blinks staring at the dark inside of the car. Meg is sleeping soundly beside him, face partially covered by the blanket. Moving slightly closer, he pulls down the cover from her eyes. He feels better knowing her eyes are where he can see them and now attempting to rid herself of the cuffs. Satisfied that the brunette is completely out- her injuries must have tired her out, and the car ride can't have been a joy. 

The annoying chime still rings softly in the silent car. He frowns, looking around before noticing that it's coming from the car kit. Someone is calling Castiel. He pushes himself to the middle and peers in front. The ID on the display says, Michael. Feeling his heart rate spikes just the little bit, he demands softly, not wanting to wake Meg up, "Answer it."

Castiel acknowledges his presence with a small twitch blue eyes still focussed on the road. He flips something on the steering wheels, and a moment later, the chiming died and the call connected. "Castiel?" Michael's smooth voice sounds over the speaker. Castiel had set the sound system to a softer volume for the night drive, even though Lucifer protested. He doesn't want to risk Castiel falling asleep at the wheel. But the boy just waved him off, saying he'd rest enough. Plus, it's not like he could fall asleep with the throbbing pain in his leg. 

Castiel argues that he's fine to drive, and even fought for the wheels. He said he loved driving. It made him feel free, whatever that means. So he let the boy do it, keeping an eye for the first hour before he's sure that Castiel could handle it. Then, he daydreamed the night away almost falling asleep before being rudely awoken by the call. He stares at the display screen like he could actually see Michael's face there. 

"Yes. What is it? Is something wrong?" Castiel asks, worry in his voice. 

"Don't worry, I'm good. Fever's still here, but I'm fine. Not like everyone worries anyway, right?" Michael scoffs. Castiel stiffens slightly at the wheels, and even though Lucifer can't see it, he can _feels_ Castiel side eying him. Lucifer is about to retort with something sarcastic and witty, but Michael cuts in before he can. "I did some research on Death. He loves to use drugs and will use it wherever and whenever he can, as a precaution or defense mechanism or some form of attack. Be careful when you come into contact with him. Alway use gloves if possible, you'll never know what ointment or drugs he slathered himself with."

"Also, his poisons and drugs are almost always odorless and colorless. You wouldn't know what hits you until you feel it and then it's too late. Most of his invention have cures, but only he knows how to cure you and rarely or ever does he offer the antidotes. So please do not get under his influence or get poisoned. Again, please wear protective material when dealing with him. I noticed that you forgot to bring your gears with you. I've already told Lucifer he isn't ready to face someone like Death but will he listen? No. He and his short temper and impatience can go to hell, see if I fucking care anymore."

Lucifer arches his eyebrows even as Castiel stiffens more beside him. This is the first time he'd heard Michael curses so outwardly. He never uses the word 'fuck' a lot, but damn, does that sound hot in Michael smooth as silk voice. "Tell Lucifer that he should buy a pair of gloves, a gas mask, and some resilient clothes, the type that wouldn't allow substance, wet or powdery absorb into your skin before he confronts Death. Tell him not to be stupid and reckless and that he should get his ass back home like right fucking now because I'm cold and shivering and I'm hungry."

Lucifer smiles. Now, Michael really does sound like a petulant child. If he'd known the man is going to be so needy and clingy when he's sick, he should just let him suffer a little so he'd come crawling to him begging for attention and love. "Why don't you tell him yourself?" he asks. 

There's a long silent on the other end of the phone, and then he hears a distinct "Fuck!" though sounding slightly muffled like Michael has his palm over the receiver but not covering it adequately enough. He smirks again, unable to stop the goofy grin on his face from spreading. "Tell Lucifer that I'm not talking to him," Michael says when he's back on the line. Castiel turns his head slightly to the left but keeps quiet. 

"Well, then Lucifer says thank you for caring. He will try to buy these 'gears' if he can find them. It's not like they're easy-to-find items but oh well, if we need it," he lets his sentence trails, knowing that that would infuriate the other man, and he's not disappointed when Michael replies, loud and angry.

"Well, tell Lucifer that if he wants to come out of this mess alive, then he should do what I say before I come out there and force these items on him myself."

"Bossy, aren't you?"

"Shut up."

Castiel sighs beside him. "I'm trying to drive here. Can the both of you save the foreplay for when we get back?"

Through the speakers, he can hear Michael spluttering, can imagine the man's face in shock as his mouth opens and closes, trying to come out with the right response for this. "Yes, darling. Be patient and wait until Daddy's home, okay? Actually, I wouldn't protest to you prepping yourself up for me. There're some lube and toys in my dresser draw-"

CLICK.

The call gets disconnected before he manages to finish his sentence. "Blushing virgin, that Michael," he says maybe slightly too fondly as he shuffles back into his seat, shaking his head. His mood lifts significantly after the call. Michael isn't so mad at him that he can't pick up the phone to warn him about Death and to take the necessary precaution. His heart warms to the idea that Michael went to all the trouble to study up on the case even after their fight. He can totally feel the love tonight.

Breaking out into Elton John's 'Lion King' song, he starts to sing, "Can you feel the love tonight~-"

"Shut up," Meg mutters before shifting in her seat, leaning her head against the window and closes her eyes. Lucifer narrows his eyes at the brunette, but even her irritation couldn't take his good mood and smile away. He keeps singing the song in his head, humming the chorus as Castiel speeds down the long deserted road.

_Can you feel the love tonight?_  
_The peace the evening brings_  
_The world, for once, in perfect harmony_  
_With all its living things_

_Can you feel the love tonight?_  
_You needn't look too far_  
_Stealing through the night's uncertainties_  
_Love is where they are_


	13. Chapter 13

Fuck. With a capital F. U. C. K. 

It's been hours since Bobby and Rufus brought up the boxes that contained the files they've gotten from the rental car his dad apparently crashed. Hours where they worked through the case files trying to connect the dots or see the pattern that his father saw at the same time attempting to avoid detection from the other detectives and agents at the station. Which is tough considering they needed all men on board for the murder of Ash and the hunt for John Winchester.

In the end, Dean told them to go after the fifth or sixth officers came knocking on their door asking for Bobby and Rufus. It'll be less suspicious anyway. Just tell them they needed to keep him in custody just in case new info might come up regarding his dad, and they need to talk to him. In the meantime, he could go through the files and try to find any clues as to what his dad might have been thinking or what he'd gotten himself mixed in. 

That had been hours ago, and the station is getting steadily quieter by the minute. He doesn't have a watch with him, but he guesses it's about nine or ten at night considering how his stomach rumbles and growls the past few hours. He was tempted to go outside and grabbed a bite, but he's afraid to leave the documents and files here unattended. He doesn't know where Bobby or Rufus are since they never showed up after they left and Gabriel didn't show his face once, that fucker.

It's obvious now that Gabriel had to know that the Feds were on his dad's tail from the beginning. Since the files were stolen before they even met. Was that why he was in Lawrence in the first place? To see if John tried to contact Dean? To catch his dad while he's trying to reunite with his sons? Is that why his dad ended up a no-show? Gabriel's presence fucking scared him off. That had to be it. And that motherfucker didn't even had the nerve to say anything. That prick!

Dean stares at the mess of papers scattered on the table, the most recent file propped open in front of him. It's a case file from 28 years ago. To be honest, all the cases files his dad were interested in were mostly from 28 to 30 years ago. Did something happen then that interested his dad so much? How old was he then? Like 19? He hadn't even met mom yet at the time. Mom's like 15! He doesn't want to think much about his mom and dad at that age, especially not when his mom is still very underaged. 

His eyes are starting to blur from how much he'd been reading and of course, files from that decade are still not very systematic or computerize yet. Some are handwritten reports from officers who doesn't seem to understand the concept of writing-for-reading purposes, instead of scrawling-so-I-did-my-job purposes. He rubs his temple, both elbows on the table and starts reading again. This case is about a man in his mid-thirties who's found dead with a drug overdose. 

That's another thing in common with these cases. The cause of death is always overdosing from some sort of drug or other. Forensic at the time were unable to identify the drug and/or poison but was able to break down the elements in it. It's like a foreign language to Dean as he scrolls through the list of substances. There are a few familiar ones like PCP, LSD, and ketamine. These are just partial of what is found in the drug/poison detected in the victim body. The full scope of the substance is still unknown. 

His drug knowledge is not that great, but he did attend high school, and there was more than one occasion where he'd hung out with the stoners instead of the jocks. He dabbled in a few high school cliches. That's the pros of starting anew. He gets to call do-over every time. And if he remembers correctly, drugs like PCP and LSD are part of hallucinogens, a form of drug that alters perception, thoughts, and feelings. In other words, hallucination. Vivid ones according to Ace, his stoner friend from Ohio. 

Well, Dean knows enough about drugs to know how deadly they can be. So it's no surprise this man ended up dead. The question is, why was dad interested in him? What makes him so special? Dean must have missed something. He read through the man's profile again. He's a successful businessman, a health nut according to his friends and family and would never in his life touch drugs. Dean scoffs. People always swear they know their loved one enough to know they wouldn't do whatever they'd been accused of, but sometimes, people are just good at hiding. 

His derisiveness ebbs away as he thought of his dad. Good one, Dean. He shakes his head, poring over the files again. Maybe the man really is a health nut and his death is technically murder. They did found him in his bed, at home and nothing seemed touched or stolen. No signs of a struggle. It seems like the man was about to go to sleep and decided to shoot up to get high and ended up overdosing. 

Dean frowns. Almost every files his dad selected have the same story. Victim found overdosed at home, in the bathtub, bed or couch. Apart from that and the drug element, nothing about these files seems related. The victimology is all over the place. This man is a health freak, while the previous file, a woman is a prostitute. Then, there's the question of age and racial differences. The victim's age varies from teenagers to seniors that are so old Dean had a moment of entertainment as he read about how this 79 years old man 'freaked' out during bingo night and died of a heart attack. It was later after post mortem that they found the drugs in his system. 

Okay, so that was different. It appears the drugs affected each individual differently. Some died instantly while others were alive long enough to experience the effects. If dad thinks the person who's killing the people is the same person, then it's quite obvious he or she doesn't have a preference. The victims are evenly divided between both genders and in two cases, a transexual. Race also doesn't seem to be a factor in choosing the victims; Caucasian, Asian, African-American, Latinos, any races the killer can find.

_Any races the killer can find..._

Dean sits up straighter. He pulls the files closer and scans every victim's profiles, their age, race, and occupation. There are all different. Very different to be exact. Not one victim are the same or have the same lifestyle. He browses through the drugs found in them. The dosages are always different too, and the compounds in the drugs vary as well with the few elements being a constant; elements that cause hallucinations. It feels like an experiment. Someone has been experimenting on these people. These victims are not victims of a crime but guinea pigs for some sick psycho's experiment. 

Feeling like he'd cracked a big case, Dean slumps back in the station uncomfortable chair. Is this it? Is this what his dad uncover? But what does this have to do with mom? How does it related to why mom was murdered? He's still missing something. Pulling more files to him, he starts flipping through them. Case files again. No, this is not relevant anymore. He's got the connection. He needs other files. What else did Bobby said was found in the car? 

He scrunches his eyes and thinks hard. 

_"Most of them are unsolved cases. Minors' juvie records. There are even files on people who are in the witness protection program."_

He opens his eyes, scanning the tables before his eyes jump to the box lying at the corner. The other files must be in there. He prays it is and that the Feds hasn't confiscated them or anything. Fuck, he can feel his heart beating so fast. This is it. He's going to find out the truth about his mom. This is why his childhood went to hell. This is what his dad had been so obsessed with from the very beginning. His hands tremble as he reaches for the box and starts to pull it closer. 

His heart soars when the box is heavy. Whatever's in there is still in there. Standing up, he opens the box and pulls out the files inside. He pushes the mess of files on the table aside and set these new files neatly on the table. These are the ones that will tell him the truth. The real deal. He needs to focus. Five of the files are juvie records. Three females and two males. They're all 15 when they're booked for possession of drugs with intent to sell. He reads each of their profile. 

The two males are Francis Lee and Karl Mash. They're both delinquent according to their file. They've been arrested for skipping school, DUIs, and grand theft auto. Nothing too serious until the drug charges. They all signed a document stating that they'll be witness to testify against a man named Julian O'Death. Since the man is said to be dangerous and posed a serious threat to their lives, they were taken into the witness protection program. 

Nothing after that. The report just stopped right there. Dean turns the pages, trying to see if he'd missed something but that's it. No info about where they went or what happened. Was there even a trial? Dean closes the files in frustration before grabbing the next one. Female, 15. Name, Tichina Nelson. Same report. Next. Female, 15. Name Jane Hawkins. Same thing. Dean slams the file shut and pulls the last folder closer. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath before opening the file.

Female, 15. Name, Mary O'Death. Dean stops breathing completely. O'Death. That's the name of the man they're prosecuting. And for some reason, the name Mary strikes a chord in him. Here he is mulling through this files trying to find a connection between these people and his mom's death and finally, a name that strikes close to home. He stares at the name, unmoving and still even as his grip on the file tightens. This person can't be his mom. His mom's name is Mary Campbell. 

True. But these people all went under witness protection. They changed their names, Dean. 

It's with utmost difficulty that he lifts his eyes to the mugshot at the top right corner of the file. He swallows. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Although she looks younger in the picture, her face rounder, and cheeks puffier, Dean can recognize her anywhere. That's his mom. Tears well up in his eyes fast and swift, clouding his vision even as he continues to stare at the picture, too shocked to react except to start crying like a baby at a glimpse of his mom.

She doesn't have the crow feet yet, her eyes large and shining, the blue slightly muted and there's a scared look in them but who wouldn't be. It's not a family picture she's posing for. It's a fucking mugshot. Her blonde hair is long and wavy, no fringes- she never did like them, framing her still young and plump face. She looked pretty even with the baby fat. You're going to grow up to be such a lady, mom. Your eyes will crinkle and droop just the little bit that gives you such a sweet loving gaze. Those chubby cheeks will disappear, and when you smile, your dimples are going to be so deep, it'll look like they're etched into your skin. 

He stares at the face for a long while, tears falling down his wet eyelids onto the paper. Blinking, he quickly dries the tear stains and pushes the file further away before wiping his eyes with his sleeves. He clears his throat. It feels so odd to see his mom again, and not just the pictures he still has of her, the one where she and John just started dating, or the family pictures they have. But one that he'd never seen before. A sudden realization slams into him. He never knew how his mom looks like as a teenager. How did he never noticed it before?

His hands are shaking as he reaches for the file. It feels wrong to read about his mom like this. But if he needs to know what happened, he needs to find out why his dad thought what happened here, in this file, has something to do with why his mom turned up murdered 30 years later. Picking up the file, he flips the page.

There's a witness statement. Parts of it were blocked out with black marker. Almost 80% of it are unreadable. 

**"Mary O'Death:** I was the one who kept supplying them with the drugs. Not father. The only reason he had me doing it was because he needed this target --- They only met father once when he had to brief them on the specifics of --- Francis, Jane, Karl, Tichina; they didn't know what the drug does. I do. And I know what else father does. I'm sure you do too, Detective Ward. What you don't know is that he has plans for me. Something big. Something terrible. And I don't want to be that person. That person whom father believed will be the answer. So please, if you help me, I will tell you everything I know. But you have to help me because if I do this, there is no turning back. Father will kill me.

 **Detective Ward:** If we offer you protection, you will testify against Julian O'Death?

 **Mary O'Death:** Yes.

 **Prosecutor Moseley:** These are the papers you need to turn state's evidence. By signing this, you'll be offered immunity from prosecution and a place in the witness protection program. But in return, we will need your full confession and testimony against Julian O'Death. Do you accept the deal? 

**Mary O'Death:** Yes.

 **Prosecutor Moseley:** Please sign here. (pause) Now, tell us everything.

 **Mary O'Death:** My name is Mary O'Death. Julian O'Death is my father and ---"

The rest of her statement are just blocks of black paragraphs.

\---

Castiel winces when he could finally lie in bed, stretching his injured leg out straight in front of him. The trip had been tougher than he thought and he had to give up the wheels and let Lucifer drives the remaining two hours. The ride in the backseat isn't as comfy as before when his leg started to act up, cramping and throbbing the entire time making it impossible for him to rest or even go at ease. He took the maximum amount of painkiller he could in a day, but the sting is still there, sharp and burning. 

Lucifer had booked one room with two separate queen size bed. One for Castiel and one for him while Meg is tied to the chair in front of them right in the middle of the room. The motel is fancier than the ones he's used to. Well, nothing could be worse than the rent-by-the-hour motel he's accustomed to staying while he entertained his clients. At least, this motel has clean sheets and a decent toilet. The air doesn't smell like cigarettes, and there are no condoms in the drawer by the bed. 

The decor isn't that bad either. A bit on the tacky side with a predetermined theme, but not one that Castiel could relate to. Space disco maybe? There's a lot of mirror and glasses decorating the place it's almost like staring at a disco ball except said ball are walls and tables. The bedsheets are colorful with bubbles as arts. Beside the TV, there's a flyer that promotes the motel many channels as well as in-house dining. The lighting is headache-inducing, dimmed red and blue orbs litter the room. 

Castiel leans back against the pillow that he'd propped up against the bed and sighs. He misses Michael's apartment already. Three months in and he's already spoilt. But then again, who doesn't? Michael's place is incomparable to this alien spaceship. He misses the smell of wood everywhere he goes, the eye soothing color and wide spaces. Groaning, he closes his eyes and grips his jeans, the pain coming back in short bursts of pain. 

"Just the sound of that deep throated moan gets me wet, Clarence. Do that again."

Rolling his eyes in his mind, he opens his eyes and stares across the room at Meg. The brunette is smiling mischievously, licking her lips. "I have to say, this is the best place you can station me. I've got the best view," she smirks, winking at Castiel. Feeling subconscious, he sits up straighter, closing his previously spread limbs. "Aw, don't do that. I was just thinking how perfectly I'll fit between those thunder thighs."

"Meg," he warns, not in the mood to play her games.

"What?" she pouts. "Can a girl have fun?" 

Castiel stares at her with a blank look on his face until she rolls her eyes and looks put out. He has to give her some credit. She got shot twice, and she doesn't seem to be in much pain than he is. And she hadn't had painkillers. Lucifer made sure of that. Castiel would be impressed if it also didn't make him sad. A person can only be so indifferent if they're used to it. Meg must be used to being in pain. Either that or she's very well trained. He thinks it's the prior. 

Lucifer is in the bathroom taking a shower. The man had a long drive and tomorrow is the big day. He needs to rest. Getting the info to where Death is wasn't so hard. All they have to do was checked into this motel with Meg, and the bellboy dropped an extra key for her. It's a key with the name "Cosmic Bed and Breakfast" prominently displayed on the attached keychain. And that's where Lucifer is heading tomorrow.

Michael's words keep coming back to the top of his mind. They're not as prepared as he would like to think. Lucifer needs those items Michael mentioned, but the man didn't seem to be too worried about it nor did he tried to find those appliances. Castiel can get behind the I'm-too-tired-to-go-fucking-shopping explanation, but he hopes that Lucifer would, at least, try to equip himself better come tomorrow morning before confronting Death. 

When he says it like that, it seems so ominous. Like Lucifer is about to confront his mortality. No wonder Michael freaked. He doesn't know what happened with the two of them after they went to talk in private but it couldn't have been anything good because Michael never came out of his room then. Not even to say goodbye. He wonders how the man must be feeling now. Castiel would never do that. If there's a risk he'll never see Dean again he would want to have a last chance to say goodbye. Or a glimpse. 

He slips his hand into his jeans pocket, pulling out his phone. No message. He opens Facebook Messenger, his message before staring back at him like it's mocking him. 

_I love hamburgers._

He glances at Dean's icon. The gray dot stares back at him. Last online 12 hours ago. Well, at least, that means Dean hadn't seen his message. Not that he's actively avoiding him after his outburst this morning. An ill thought strikes him. Maybe Dean is just pretending he's okay with Castiel's quite obvious disturbed mentality but is just too polite to say so and instead opt to ignore as a way out? The thought makes him queasy inside like he's about to be sick. No, Dean's not that type of person. He wouldn't do that. Don't think of him that way.

Despite his self-reassurance, he sends Dean another message. He presses enter before he can think much about it and instantly regret it once he sees his blue bubble staring back at him. Irritated by himself, he locks his phone and stuffs it in his pocket, determined to forget about it. He has a job to do. He doesn't have time to fool around. And his leg is still killing him. 

Moving off the bed, he pulls the sheets out of its place and throws the cover open. Then, he steps out of his shoes, ignores Meg's wolf-whistle as he drops his jeans and climbs into bed. Pulling the cover over his body and half his head, he tries to fall asleep, but not before poking a hand out to withdraw his phone from his pocket and puts it on the bedside table. No, he's not waiting for Dean's message. He's not. He's sleeping. Or trying to when a door opens, and a waft of steam enters the room. 

More wolf-whistle from Meg and he peeks an eye out. Lucifer is in his towel, draped low around his hips. He'd been working out, his well-toned body even fitter as the muscles flex as he towel dry his hair. He gives Meg an unimpressed look before walking over to his bag. Castiel averts his eyes when he bends over to dig around in it trying to find his sleeping clothes. His round ass pokes obscenely against the motel's towel he can actually see the impression of his buttcheeks. Suddenly, he has this vision of standing over Lucifer while he's on his hands and knees in front of him, ass out and spread-

Castiel closes his eyes. Teenage hormones, he curses. He swears he wasn't this horny when he's still a virgin. He didn't think he'll be much into sex after all the sex he'd had the past months; painful, humiliating ones. He thought he'd be so turned off by the notion or prospect of sex that he wouldn't be willingly subjecting himself to it again, not after a long while but his appetite just multiplied. He aches for it, hungry for any contact, warm or hard, soft or rough, he needs it. And the only way he knows how to get it is with sex. 

He glances at Lucifer again who's unashamedly naked and pulling his boxers on. Meg is also unabashedly staring, giving him bedroom eyes. Lucifer lifts up his middle finger before pulling on a threadbare shirt he'd seen Michael wearing two days ago, dims the light and jumps into bed. He doesn't bother with the cover, just lies there, spread eagle like a starfish, eyes closed. He watches the man a few feet away from him breathes, his chest lifting just the little bit with every inhale and lowering when he exhales softly. 

Part of him wants to go over and starts stripping the man, takes his cock into his hands and mouth before riding Lucifer to hell and back, but a part of him hesitates. He shouldn't do that anymore. Why not? Because. Because what? He has Michael? Because of Dean? Dean doesn't even care about you. He does! You're mistaken, Castiel. He cares about Jimmy, the person he can jack off to. That's all he cares about. A booty call. Because you're one. A booty call as Castiel and a booty call as Jimmy. Even when you're given a second name, you just end up being someone's booty call. You're pathetic. Get some self-respect, Castiel.

And that's just the thing. He doesn't have any. Not anymore. He's so broken he craves sex when he should abhor it. 

Swallowing hard, he buries his face under the cover and forces himself to sleep. He repeats Michael's lesson to himself, disassemble and reassemble his gun in his head, and thinks about the job tomorrow, summoning up all the details he'd read on Death and Meg and turns those information around and around in his head until they're all he can see and feel and knows. 

\---

Staring at the documents in front of him, he can feel his heart in his throat throbbing to get out. His mom went into witness protection at the age of 15, adopted the name Mary Campbell, placed in Los Angeles with US Marshal Samuel Campbell as her "dad", graduated high school there and proceeded to go to UCLA where she got a degree in Social Studies. At the age of 23, she met John Winchester, 27 who, at that time, is an officer in LA and got married two years later. Dean Winchester is born later that year and in the year 2009, Sam Winchester was born.

Except for the part about Samuel, all these he knew but to see their life documented like that, impersonal and detached, it's not right. This is their life. There are sweat, tears and blood in there. Not just lines of black ink on paper. The report stopped after mom died. It's like they can't be bothered anymore once their asset is gone. He wonders who actually gave a damn about the family she left behind. The shadow of a once loving husband and father and the broken pieces of their childhood.

Samuel Campbell. Dean remembered his grandfather. He died when Dean was six. The man is like dad, the tough love type of man. They don't see eye to eye, often butting head more than anything else but they both love Mary with everything they had. He can't believe Samuel isn't really his grandfather. All this time, he'd been posing as one. His real grandfather is a drug dealer named Julian O'Death. He literally has a hardcore criminal in his family tree.

After Samuel's death, they didn't offer Mary another US Marshal upon her insistence. She had wanted a normal life and John never knew about her past, and she wanted to keep it that way. Besides, it had been years and even though they never caught Julian, she thinks it's safe enough with a detective as a husband and years of lost communication. Maybe that'd been too optimistic of Mary because if dad found this and thinks this might be the reason mom is dead then Julian O'Death must have found her. 

Even though the police had filed the case as an accident, the Feds started their own investigation into her death. Knowing what they know, they have privileged intel to look into clues and discrepancies that the Sioux Falls police didn't. That his dad doesn't. Not until recently. Even with their in-depth knowledge of his mom's history and their file on Julian O'Death, they still couldn't prove that it was murder or that the man was involved. The initial finding was the same as Sioux Falls PD; an accident. 

They did highlight something amiss during the night of her death. A call from the house he was sleeping over. He remembered them interviewing him about that, not the Feds but Bobby and dad. They asked him if he did call mom that night, perhaps he got a nightmare and was afraid or something, but he was sure he hadn't, even told them so. He never knew they rebuffed his statement, didn't know he was dismissed just like that. But reading the file now, he can feel his anger burn. 

He _did not_ called his mom that night. He was sure of it. 

But when he read further, he can see why they would disqualify his statement. His fingerprints were found on the handle of the phone. His prints were the last ones there. And the Johnson's family collaborates that the last person to use the phone that night was Mrs. Johnson when she called to check in on her dad. And that was 11:20 pm, well after he'd already gone to bed. In that moment, Dean really did start to question himself, doubt his surety. Is that why he always felt like his dad blamed him for his mom's death because John did?

Maybe he is to be blamed. Maybe he did call his mom. 

Dean stares and stares, unable to process the information overloading in his brain. The evidence says he did call his mom. But he honestly remembered he didn't. He would know considering he'd played the night his mom died over and over in his head, trying to remember if he'd seen her car lights, thinking what if. What if he'd been more awake? What if he had seen his mom coming? Could he have stopped the crash? He doesn’t think so, but maybe he would get a glimpse of his mom before she died. Instead, all he have now is the earth shattering crash to accompanied him at night. The crash. That's what woke him. 

He couldn't remember anything before then except Mrs. Johnson tucking them into bed. He remembers now, falling asleep after a few word toss, a deep sleep. No dreams. Nothing. 

Jolting upright in his seat, he clutches tightly to the edge of the table. He was drugged. Whoever drugged him called his mom from the phone and left his prints there. That has to be it. But who? His blood freezes. Julian O'Death. That's the only most likely person to want to harm his mom. His heart hurts. His mom died trying to save him. Before he can wallow in self-hate and guilt, another thought strikes him. But where is O'Death now? The man is still out there somewhere. And they're his grandsons. He either wants them dead, or he wants them. 

O'Death wants them. 

It feels like a ghost just walked through him by the sudden chill he feels, goosebumps spreading across his arms and the back of his neck. His heart hammers in his chest as he feels the steadily increasing fear skyrockets. 

Sam. That old man with the walking stick. O'Death. Father Death. They all clicked. 

Fuck. With a capital F. U. C. K. 

His phone chooses that moment to vibrate in his pocket.


	14. Chapter 14

Dean stares at the messages. 

14:45 _I love hamburgers._

21:53 _I'm in Sioux Falls._

Dean continues to stare at his phone's screen until it blacks out. And still he keeps staring, his shell-shocked expression reflected back at him. It's like his brain has given up. After hours of poring through government files and having an epiphany about his mom and the subsequent danger they're in, his brain has decided to cop out. It's no longer working. He can't process the messages he read. Jimmy is in Sioux Falls. Okay. 

Not okay, his brain finally screams. Everything is happening too fast, and he can't keep up. How in the world is Jimmy here? And what the hell kind of timing is this? If things hadn't been so crazy the past few days, Dean would've chalked it up to coincidence but now- he can't be so sure anymore. Why is everything happening at once? What is he supposed to do right now? He's so confused. Can someone please tell him what to do, what to focus on because he's about to crap his pants right the fuck now-

The door to the room opens, and Gabriel strolls in like nothing is wrong like he wasn't one of those government bastards that lied straight to his face. His confusion takes a wide U-turn, and he finds himself more angry than he'd been in ages. He snaps his head up and glares at the man, who stumbles on his way to the table, one eyebrow arching up slowly in a 'what-did-I-do' deer in the headlight look. 

Dean can see the moment it clicks when Gabriel golden-colored eyes roam the table and widens as he takes in the load of files open and spread in front of Dean. He stops completely in his path to Dean, going very still before lifting his eyes. Dean narrows his own eyes, hands white-knuckling the edge of the table. He thinks it would be so cliche if he were to flip the table over and stormed at Gabriel but noticed belatedly that the table is screwed to the floor. 

"Now, wait a minute-" Gabriel starts.

"You knew all this time?" Dean snarls. "And you never bothered to tell me?"

"Dean-"

"You knew about my mom, Gabriel! And it didn't occur to you that I might want to know that little detail? Oh and let's not forget the psycho that killed her and probably Ash and who's currently in this fucking town because why the hell not? Don't need to give heads up because this is 'confidential' secret operative business and you can't afford to compromise your fucking mission to warn your friend that something bad is coming, and something bad is coming at him fast!" he shouts.

"Whoa, Dean let's not get ahead of ourselves here, okay?"

"Are you seriously trying to piss me off more right now, Gabe? Fucking man who killed Ash was at our house today, and you didn't even-"

"Wait, what?" Gabriel interrupts looking bewildered. 

"Julian O'Death. Or Father Death as you called him. I think it was him at our house. He was talking to Sam, Gabe. He fucking _touches_ Sam!"

"I need you to calm down, Dean. When did you saw him? What does he want?"

"I don't know. I didn't even know it was him until-" he gestures to the open files and sighs. "He's old and bony, and he has a walking stick and dressed like he's going to attend a funeral. Actually, if you ask me what Death looks like, I would say the man would give a pretty accurate human representation. What does he want, Gabe?" he asks, desperate.

"He talked to Sam? What did he say?"

"I don't know," he says shaking his head. "Sam said he asked if he slept well. And that's not the only weird thing to happen today. Today is one fucked up day."

"What else happened?" Gabriel asked, face serious and eyes solemn as he sits in the chair opposite Dean. It eerily reminds him of the day they met. When Gabriel hauled his ass to the precinct and forced him to sweat for hours before interrogating the hell out of him. The exact same position. The exact same room. The exact same atmosphere. Except now, it's a different state and in an entirely different circumstance. 

"You're going to say I'm crazy."

Gabriel frowns, long nose scrunching up. "Try me."

"I think Sam had a vision," he admits not looking at the guy. Gabriel is quiet. He peers at the man with one eye, trying to gauge his reaction. The man is sitting still as a rock in his chair, eyes never leaving Dean's face. He'd never seen Gabriel so focused before it's like every atom of his body is listening raptly, giving Dean his full attention. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, he rubs the back of his neck. "He saw Ash. Being murdered. By a man using needles. And I swear to god, I never mentioned Ash's death nor how he died."

"Sam told me he had a nightmare this morning, but I brushed it off. I thought it was just residual trauma from you know, Lawrence. I didn't give it much thought until I saw Sam with that old man and something about him just rings alarm bells all over and then Sam said he recognized the man as the man in his dream. The killer. The one who killed the computer guy. And you know Ash is always on his computer, and he has this mullet hairstyle which is very identifiable and-"

"Dean, calm down. You're hyperventilating. You need to breathe." Suddenly, Gabriel is close, like right in front of him, both hands on his shoulder as he leans down so that they're face-level. He's staring at Dean with piercing light brown eyes even as he starts to breathe obviously and exaggeratedly. In. Out. "Breathe with me, Dean. It's okay. You're okay." And Dean does. He takes in a deep gulp of air and slowly let it out through his mouth. He repeats the same pattern until he doesn't choke anymore.

"Thanks," he says, grateful.

"No problem, Deano," Gabriel replies slapping him on the shoulder once before pulling away. "Sam has visions?" he asks, brows furrowing as he leans against the table. "How is that possible?"

"You tell me. I was scared as hell when he told me and I realized he's talking about Ash. How can this be real life? Shit like this doesn't happen, Gabe. I'm scared. What's happening to us?" He thought he'd managed to escape crazy when he left Lawrence but this- this is a whole other dimension of freaky shit. "O'Death is our grandfather," he finally says. "Is he coming for us? Are we in danger? What does he want with us? What does he want with Sam?"

"Dean, I can't tell you-"

"Gabriel, if you start that government secret bullshit thing again, I swear to God," he warns.

Gabriel rolls his eyes. "What do you want me to do? Screw the code I swear my life on?" Dean gives him an unimpressed look. If there's any government agent with less integrity and respect for their rules and bureaucratic crap, then it's Gabriel fucking Ward. At least, the man has the decency to look sheepish as he says that, shrugging one shoulder before pushing himself up and walking around the table. "Okay, you got me. Still, I don't think you knowing anything would help matters. It'll only make you paranoid. I mean, you're already freaking out right now!" he stresses waving in Dean's general direction.

"I'm freaking out because _I don't fucking know anything!_ And that's what scares me the most, Gabe. Please, whatever you know or think you do, please tell me!" he begs, sitting up.

Gabriel sighs, tilting his head up at the ceiling, mouth open in an unattractive way. He takes a deep breath before snapping his head down and closes his mouth. "Promise not to freak."

"I promise not to freak," he repeats. 

Gabriel shakes his head. "You're so going to break that promise," he mutters before pulling the chair out and sits, putting both hands on the table and crossing his fingers in front of him. "Yes, Julian O'Death is 'Father Death' back in the old days. He's one of the most dangerous and wanted men in the country, but we have nothing on him. Like I said, he's like a ghost. We have no evidence on him even though we knew it was him. He killed for a living, yes but-" Gabriel puts up a finger before pulling the files to him. He opens the case files and set them side by side.

"These victims seems like random cases. There's nothing that tied them together. Some are ruled accident. Some died of natural causes. Some are straight up murder. No patterns. No connections. These cases were spread across the country. Even the FBI database couldn't pull these files together because hello, north and south. Heaven and hell. My dad, though he'd been on O'Death's tail from the start. He profiled the man, studied him. O'Death was his life. And he picked up on these deaths. Every time O'Death is in a town, death like these popped up. My dad doesn't believe in coincidence, so he marked all these cases down." 

"He's been using these people as test subjects," Dean supplies, nodding at the open case files in front of Gabriel. 

The man stares up at him in surprise before the corner of his lips curls up in quiet approval as he nods. "Sharp. You're not as dumb as I thought."

"Hey!"

"Well, you can be quite blinded sometimes. Even when said subject is staring you right in the face," Gabriel says cryptically. 

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Gabriel shrugs before waving a hand to silent him. Dean grumbles but keeps quiet. "Yes, O'Death has been experimenting. My dad thinks he's formulating a new drug. One that he'd been putting his life effort into. The files here only dated back to 30 years ago but dad believed that he'd been at it for longer. We don't know what his plans are or what he's trying to do. Not until his daughter came up." And before Dean could say anything, Gabriel lifts his eyes up, staring him right in the eyes. "Yes, your mother. Mary O'Death."

"Dad caught her with a bunch of teenager distributing drugs. Not your common ones like PCP or heroin but something different. Something very much like these,” Gabriel prods the case file with a finger. “It was no coincidence that his daughter was involved. Mary wanted out. But she didn’t dare to do it on her own. She wanted protection. She wanted to disappear.”

“So when the state gave the green light, giving her the escape she needed, she spilled. The things coming out of her mouth, my dad thought it was nonsense. At first, he contributed it to her being brainwashed because how can it be real? There's no such thing. What O'Death is trying to do is unnatural. It's a rambling of a mad man. A mad scientist. And Nancy wanted nothing to do with it."

"What? What is O'Death trying to do?"

Gabriel closes his eyes and sighs. "He was trying to create psychics."

\---

He's in a room he doesn't recognize. He looks around. It's not a nice place. He doesn't like this place. It's nothing out of the ordinary. But somehow, it scares him. The air feels wrong. 

There's a big armchair in front of him. He can't see over it. He's too short. He looks around again. He's standing on a carpet. It has flowers on them. Sunflowers. He smiles. He like yellow and their big open faces makes him happy. He looks to his side and notices the antique teacup set on a side table. It looks quaint. He likes the word 'quaint'. It's a new word he'd learn today. He like using it. The decor of the place looks 'quaint'. Like an old lady's house. 

There's a bed at the corner of the room. The sheets are like socks sewn together because they look colorful. He thinks it's funny but not something he would like to have. He's happy with his Superman bedspread thank you very much. Beside the bed is a glass of half filled water and a jug that is almost empty. An old fashion alarm clock stands beside them. He wonders who uses alarm like that anymore when Dean always just uses his phone. Maybe they prefer the ring ring of the bell instead of Metallica waking them up in the morning. 

The sun is shining so he knows it daytime because he can see his shadow spreading out in front of him, darkening the armchair in front of him. He turns around and notice the window there. The curtain framing it is 'quaint'. A light brown with teacups pattern on it. Whoever lives here must be an old lady. If he's lucky, he might come across a cat. Or a kitten. He'd always wanted pets. But Dean is allergic and the place they're staying never allowed pets anyway. 

He's about to turn back around when a shadow outside the window catches his eyes. He pauses, deliberating before walking the few steps closer to the window and peers outside. The sun is shining so brightly, so it takes a while before his eyes adjusted. Someone is outside, lying flat against the wall beside the window. Standing on tiptoe, he presses his face against the glass.

Something pokes out from the side. It's black and pointy. It takes him a while to realizes what it is. It's the barrel of a gun. His eyes widen before trailing upwards, slowly. Then, his mouth opens, and he screams. A silent scream. 

\---

"What do you mean he's creating psychics?"

"Exactly what that sentence said. O'Death is trying to create psychics. Keywords trying."

"But-"

"Now you see why this Sam-is-having-visions thing is waving it's red alert flag in my face."

Dean swallows slumping back in his seat. "But how?"

"When did Sam starts having visions?"

"I don't know. Today is the first I've heard of it. And I don't think it's a coincidence that it happened when O'Death is conveniently in town. He must have something to do with it."

"There's something I haven't told you," Gabriel confesses staring at his hands.

"What?" Dean asks afraid of what's coming next. He doesn't know if he can take another information bomb. This is about enough for today.

"O'Death has big plans for Mary. It's one of the reasons why she wanted out. She doesn't want to be part of his plans." Gabriel stops, fiddling with his hands. 

Dean waits but when no response seems to be coming from the man, he prompts. "Okay. Go on." He can already sense that what he's going to hear is not something he's going to like with the way Gabriel looks like he's pulling teeth trying to get the next sentence out of his mouth. His heart thuds heavily in his chest. Now, what?

"She's the root of his experiments. He never dosed her with enough to cause her harm like he did with the other test subjects but she was consistently dosed with the same drug that he'd been feeding his victims. Ever since she was born," Gabriel says, speaking fast as if the speed would make it easier for Dean to process this. His mom was drugged. With a potentially or evidently lethal drug. All through to her teenage life. "But she said she never had a vision. Nor does she felt any side effects from the medication."

"How does she even know? She was drugged from the start!"

"O'Death take excruciating reports on her status and well-being. Any heart rate spike or abnormality never went unnoticed. He said he had a plan for her and that she's going to be the one who would make his dream comes true. That she will be the one to open up his universe, to bring the answer to everything. Now you know why my dad was skeptical. Who talks like that? That some crazy mumbo jumbo but your mom was scared. She doesn't understand what it is he wanted from her and how she can give it to him. She just wanted to be what he craved for, but she has no idea how and towards the end, when she got older, she saw O'Death for what he is. Delusional."

"What does he means by that?" Dean asks, feeling goosebump prickling all over his body. "What did he do to mom?"

"We don't know. After she had testified, dad had a bunch of medical experts to check on her, and everything was fine. Nothing abnormal. So we really did thought he was just cuckoo in the head."

"But Sam..."

"Yes. So maybe it's not all nonsense after all."

"But why Sam? I mean, if it's something that doesn't affect her but her children, if it's something hereditary then I should have it too. But I've never in my life had any sort of vision," he stresses, running his hands through his hair. "Sam is just a kid. And after everything that happened at Lawrence, he doesn't deserve this crap. He doesn't deserve to have to watch people getting tortured and killed. What if it never stops? What if it's a permanent thing?"

"I don't think it's a permanent thing, Dean. You did say that Sam never experienced anything like this before. It has to be O'Death. He might have done something to Sam that we don't know of. You said he came into contact with him today. Maybe he did previously, and we just didn't know about it. He could have dose Sam with a drug and that for whatever reason triggered a vision. It sounds so stupid if you said it out loud like that but I think that's our best bet. We have to figure out how they got into contact."

"But apart from today, Sam said he'd never seen the man before. Except for in his dreams."

"There has to be something we're missing."

"Fuck..."

Just then his phone starts to vibrate on the table. He glances at it before scrambling to pick it up. "Hey, Linda, what's up? Is something wrong?"

"Dean," Linda's voice come through the speaker loud and clear; the distress evident in her tone. Dean's heart flies up his throat and lodges there. He can't breathe. "You have to come back. Sam is inconsolable. He wants you."

"What?"

"He said he saw a bad man. And he's afraid you're going to be in danger. I think it's a nightmare. I tried reassuring him, but he's freaking out. Even Kevin is scared. You need to come home, Dean. Sam needs you," Linda says. It sounds like she's in a hallway or something because he can hear the echo from the room she's in, and she's talking in hush voices. 

"Sure, Linda. I'm coming back right now. Be there in ten. I'm sorry for the trouble. I hope Kevin is okay."

"It's okay, honey. It's just a bad dream that's all. Just come quick, okay?"

"On my way and thanks, Linda," he says before hanging up. 

Gabriel is looking at him with a serious expression. Seriousness doesn't fit his face at all. For some reason, he finds himself missing the cheeky light-hearted Gabriel he'd come to like and is fond of. He guesses the job makes it hard to stay cheery. Just take a look at Bobby. His dad. He wonders if it's worth it. Sacrificing your own happiness and emotional mileage to try and make the world safer, a little less ugly. Try being the keyword. Most of the time, his dad and Bobby are chasing ghosts, those who had already committed a crime. It's not like they can prevent it from happening. All they do is chase after something that has already occurred. Is it worth it then?

"Something happened?" the man asks, whiskey eyes dark from the shadow casts by the lights in the room. 

"I think Sam had another vision."

Gabriel stands abruptly causing his chair to skid backward with a loud screech that grates at the ears. Dean winces. "What are we waiting for then? Come on," he urges, walking to the door. Dean gets up on unsteady feet. He's been sitting too long; his legs are cramped, and his toes are tingling. Stretching his legs helps but he's still a bit slow getting out of the room compared to Gabriel, who's already outside at the top of the stairs across the station. The precinct is almost empty apart from the few haggard looking officers clocking in or clocking out. Most of the feds are gone. Bobby and Rufus are nowhere to be seen.

They get into a police cruiser. He doesn't know where Gabriel gets it, but he must have called up some favors or so with the local police. Either way, he's glad because then they're on their way home. To Sam. Dean hopes he hadn't witnessed another death. He prays it's not another murder. Never had he felt more in Tommy's shoes than he is at the moment. Now he knows what it's like to get that dreaded phone call and turns up at the scene to see someone you know, a friend or a neighbor, dead or brutally murdered. 

It seems like no time at all when Linda's house come into view. Bobby's house is dark in the background, so he guesses the man isn't home yet. Gabriel screeches to a stop before throwing open the door. Dean follows suit. He rushes up to Linda's door and rings the bell. It takes about a minute before Linda opens the door, worry lining her eyes. Kevin is by her side looking pale and scared. Sam is nowhere to be seen. "Where's Sam?" he asks urgently.

"He's in the living room. We managed to calm him down somewhat with hot chocolate. He watching Bugs Bunny now," Linda says, nodding her head in the general direction of the living room. She steps back, holding the door open. "Come on in," she welcomes before pausing when she notices Gabriel behind him. "Oh, and you are?" she asks suspiciously, one eyebrow furrowing. 

"Oh, this Gabriel. He's a-" Dean trails off.

"I'm Bobby's colleague," Gabriel answers instead, putting his hand out. Linda shakes his hands, still eyeing him warily. "Bobby is still busy, so I gave Dean a ride from the station. Sounds urgent," he smiles, lips stretch wide across his charming oval face. His long sharp nose scrunched up making him looks impish instead, maybe even flirty which is something Dean does not want to think about.

Expressing his whole hearted thanks, he steps inside and walks swiftly to the living room. He's been to the Trans a few times. They're organized and neat with only a few decors around the house. There's a very utilitarian feel to the place. Gabriel follows close behind. 

Once he's in the living room, he can hear the telltale soundtrack from Bugs Bunny and another few steps in and he sees Sam huddling in the corner of an armchair, hugging a mug in his hand as he stares at the television screen. His eyes are red like he'd been crying, and his nose and cheeks are pink. His heart aches a little at the sight as he scurries over. Sam notices him approaching from the corner of his eyes and brighten up. It never fails to warm his heart how his little brother always seems genuinely happy to see him.

He smiles and crouches in front of Sam, ruffling his hair. It doesn't escape his attention that Sam lets him. "Hey, buddy. I heard you had a nightmare."

Sam nods, eyes wide and staring. "Dean, you're okay," he whispers.

"Of course, I am buddy. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I saw him, Dean. I saw him with a gun, and I thought-" Sam's eyes start welling with tears. 

"Who did you see?" he asks. He doesn't dare breathe as he waits. The moment seems to stretch on forever. He can hear every boink, ding and chime from the television in the background. It's like every hair on his body is standing on alert, waiting. His throat feels dry. He closes his mouth, licks his lips before swallowing. Sam pulls his bottom lips between his teeth and chews. Dean gives him a stern look before tapping his finger on the abused lip until it pops free. 

"It's okay," he assures Sam. "I'm fine. I'm alright. See?" he says, punching himself in the chest. "Still here," he smiles.

Sam reaches out to touch him, seemingly satisfied when Dean feels solid. His small little shoulders slump with relief, and his face relaxes but he doesn't let go of his grip on Dean. Like holding him makes him feel safe, anchoring him to the ground. So Dean wraps his hand over Sam's small one and squeezes, giving the boy a swarmy smirk, the one he hates so much. Sam rolls his eyes. It's always comforting to go back to the way things were, things they're familiar with, thing that makes sense. 

Sam's gaze wavers. "I was afraid something is going to happen to you," he says in a soft voice, ducking his head. 

Dean leans in closer, bumping his forehead against Sam's softly. Their hair brushes together, tickling their forehead. Sam giggles, looking up. His eyes are bright and big from up close, and his heart did a somersault when he sees the slight joy in them. Deciding to go full on girly mode, he bumps their nose together. Sam scrunches up his little nose and pushes Dean's face away with the palm of his hand. Dean smiles before sobering up. 

"Did you saw me get hurt?" he asks, anxious. If Sam did saw him getting hurt somehow, and if it's really a vision then it means _he will get hurt._

Sam shakes his head. Dean lets go of the breath he'd been holding. "No. I didn't see you get hurt, Dean. But I saw him. And he had a gun." Sam's eyes widen like saucer before he continues. "He hurt you, Dean. I thought he was going to hurt you again."

"Who?" Dean asks, frowning.

"I saw Lucifer. And I felt bad. Really bad. Like something bad is going to happen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it was pretty obvious but who saw this coming?


	15. Chapter 15

The alarm blares from somewhere to his right; the opening of Shake It Off by Taylor Swift blasts loudly in the still room. He lets the song run for almost two minutes; his half awake subconscious nodding along to the chorus. Someone groans from the bed beside him followed by the rustling of sheets. From across the room, he hears faint curses and grumbling. He stays exactly where he is, legs tangled in the sheet before rolling onto his stomach and stare at the device. 

Pushing himself up to his elbow, he swipes the screen. The room falls into silence. Snuggling back down onto the bed, he digs the side of his face into the pillow, cradling it close as he blinks sleepily at the bed across from him. He can see the tuft of black hair poking out from underneath the cover. He rolls onto his back, stretching long and languid thinking it's time to get out of bed. He plants his feets on the carpeted floor and wipes down his face, rubbing his eyes before running both hands through his blonde locks.

His eyes fall onto the lump in the bed opposite. He finds himself smiling at the sight. Castiel is dug deep under the cover, curling on his side with only the top of his head and half an ear making an appearance. His hair is sticking up everywhere; his head looks like a small hedgehog on the white pillow. Smirking, he leans over and grabs the corner of the pillow. Without warning, he pulls. Hard. There's a squawk like an animal drowning as Castiel jerks violently on his bed, sheets flying as he almost jostles himself out of bed. 

Lucifer bursts out into raucous laughter, clutching his side as the let the pillow falls to the floor. Castiel is glaring at him with angry squinty eyes from the edge of the bed, hands clutching to the sheets for dear life before he rolls over, looming threateningly ahead of him as he reaches for the dropped pillow. Sensing danger but is unable to stop the cackles from spilling out, he scrambles back onto his bed but not before getting a faceful of pillow. For someone who'd just woken up, Castiel packed a punch. 

Choking, he searches blindly for his pillow, throwing a hit back and cheers internally when he feels it connects with something hard and solid. His victory is temporary however when Castiel descends on him. It seems like he'd crossed the small space between the beds and is now launching hits after hits from the side of his bed. Lucifer tries to block the onslaught by holding up his pillow to cover his face and torso but in his position, he knows he's going to get pulverizes if he doesn't do something. 

When Castiel lifts his pillow for his next attack, Lucifer throws his pillow aside and lunges for the boy, grabbing him by the waist and throwing him down on the bed with him. Roaring in victory, he grabs the abandoned pillow and smacks Castiel's head, the boy having nowhere to go since he'd got him trapped beneath him. He can't even block his hits. Castiel splutters as he turns his face left and right, jerking as he tries to jostles himself free. 

Red-faced and panting, Lucifer finally lets up. Castiel is quick to scramble from underneath him and sits up, glaring at him from the corner of the bed. They both watch each other for a moment, accessing. Nobody moves, afraid one small movement might trigger another attack. Castiel's hair is even more tousled now, looking like he'd just been electrocuted. His face is pink with exertion, blue eyes bright. He looks so adorable in the soft morning lighting that Lucifer can't help the small upturn corner of his lips. 

Just like that, the tension dissolves but what surprises him the most is how Castiel erupts into laughter, his shoulder shaking as his eyes crinkle. He's shaking his head like he can hardly believe what happen. He's laughing so hard his nose scrunches up. He has this gummy smile that Lucifer had never seen before it surprises him a little. How has he not seen Castiel laugh before? There must be a time during their nine months acquaintance that he must saw the boy laugh. 

But looking at him now, pale pink lips stretch wide across his face as he rubs at his eyes, he thinks it's a shame Castiel doesn't laugh that often. He looks so free and open. Slightly ruffled like someone forget to iron him when he woke up this morning but not a bad look on him at all. Castiel can definitely rock the out of bed or rumpled look. It fits him. Smiling himself, he gives Castiel a soft shove on the chest. Castiel rocks back a little before looking up, his laughter dying down a little but he still has the dorky gummy smile on his face.

"Morning, Cassie," he greets.

Blue eyes twinkle back at him as Castiel gives him one of his small smiles. It's small yet genuine, his eyes soft. "Good morning, Luci," he greets back in his gravelly voice. "FYI, that's not the polite way to wake someone up."

"Never said I was polite," he answers back, arching one eyebrow up with a cheeky smile on his face. 

"God, enough with the flirting. You make a girl want to puke," a voice sounded from across the room followed by a string of gagging noise.

Lucifer turns around and gives Meg an unimpressed stare. "We're not all gloomy and gothic like you, Meg. Sometimes, you just need rainbows and sunshine in your life. Lighten up! Today might be the day you'll get lucky," he throws at her as he stands up. "Think about what you want to do when you're a free person," he adds as he grabs his toiletries bag and approaches the bathroom. Before stepping in, the turns to Castiel, who's still sitting in his bed as he stares at the pillow in his hands. 

"Do you mind getting breakfast? Something sweet and lots of coffee. I will love you forever if you do that for me," he says, making googly eyes at the boy as he holds the bag over his heart. Castiel looks up at him, blue eyes the color of ocean blinking slowly. Before, he used to see Michael in Castiel but now, it's easy to differentiate the two persons. Maybe he was just so angry and bitter, blinded with rage and resentment that he saw what he wanted to see. Just so he can rip the person apart like doing so will make his issues disappear. He'd made a terrible mistake. One he still can't forgive himself over.

Pink lips curl up slightly at the corner. "Of course," Castiel answers, glancing over his shoulder at Meg. "Do you want something too?" 

Lucifer doesn't bother to wait for Meg's response as he enters the bathroom. He's going to do his best to make Castiel feel at home with them. He won't let the boy feels alone or abandoned anymore. He's going to make damn sure to include him in everything they do and damn right he will make Castiel laugh again. 

\---

Dean hates crowd but luckily it's a Monday morning, so traffic is slow at the local supermart. Most people strolling behind their trolleys here are either the retired elderly or those unfortunate jobless middle-aged men or women. These people don't look as peaceful to be at the supermart in broad daylight, the stress and worry evident on their faces. Even though it's the summer holiday, there are barely any teenagers here except for Dean. There are a few kids around Sam's age, though, pestering their moms and sneaking candy bar into the trolley when they're not looking.

Luckily for him, Sam doesn't make much of a fuss when they go out for grocery shopping. But maybe he said it too soon because then he hears a squeal and fast footsteps running towards him. He turns to the sounds as he places a carton of eggs into his half-filled trolley. He already had a block of cheese, two packets of bacon slices, a box of pancake batter, two loafs of bread, a carton of milk, yogurt and a crate of beer. Between him and Bobby, they finish the beers fast. 

Looking at their abysmal inventory this morning, he knew he needed to do the grocery today or else there won't be any food on the table. Checking the items he'd already have, he thinks he'll need something for dinner too. He turns his trolley around and stops short when Sam jumps up onto the end of the cart, lifting his feet up and planting them on the metal bar in front, clinging to the thing like a monkey. 

Sam frowns as he surveys the items. "You forgot the Lucky Charms," he states, staring up at Dean with brown puppy dog eyes that are half covered by his hair. Sam blows the flap out of his eyes so he could give him his full 'please, Dean, please' look. 

Dean reaches out to swipes Sam's hair back, but the boy dodges out of his grasp, hanging back on the trolley. Dean rolls his eyes, pushing the cart along. Sam squeal, smile brightening up his face as he twists and turns trying to see where they're going. He's vibrating in place with excitement making it hard for Dean to steer the metal apparatus. "I didn't forget. It's on my list," he says as he heads to the cereal aisle.

"You have a list?"

"My metaphorical list," Dean responds before Sam can give him shit for never having a list. There had been times when he'd forgotten something because of it, but hey, who does grocery shopping with list anymore? It's inconvenient, and he's bound to lose the piece of paper anyway. And his brain is more than capable enough to remember what he needs to buy. And right now, it's Lucky Charms. Also, when Sam's not looking, condoms and a blue tie.

With Jimmy in town, there's a possibility that he might get laid. And soon. His heart flutters as he thinks about it. Is he going to meet Jimmy if the guy asks? Jimmy is still a stranger, and he doesn't know much about the guy except for the little tidbit he shared. Is he really going to let a stranger fuck him? A stranger, who like many other before used his ass? The thought makes him shudder, and he feels a cold sweat coming. 

Maybe he shouldn't be thinking too far ahead. He hasn't even text Jimmy back and who says the guy even want to meet? But then, why mentioned that he's in Sioux Falls at all? Unless he wanted to hang out. And there's the unsubtle hint about burgers. If that's Jimmy's favorite food, and if they're really going out, Dean thinks he knows a place he could bring Jimmy. The Roadhouse. He'd heard good stuff from Bobby and Rufus about the burgers there. His stomach rumbles just thinking about it. 

"Yay! Lucky Charms," Sam cheers as he jumps down from the trolley and goes onto the tip of his toe to reach the box. "Dean," he calls and wriggles his fingers a little. Dean rolls his eyes at his childish antics and grabs the Lucky Charms. He places them in the cart as Sam jumps up and down beside him, doing a very nerdy jiggle. He shakes his head fondly, watching as Sam wraps his little fingers on the metal bars at the side of the trolley.

"Hey, hands at the top," he says, tapping Sam's fingers. "You don't want your fingers getting stuck between those things." Sam looks at the bars and obediently put his hand at the top, holding on as Dean steers along. He watches his little brother for a while. It seems like he'd forgotten about last night, even if it's just for a moment. Sam was up most of last night, scared to go to sleep because he doesn't want to see people get hurt. He's afraid he's going to see Dean get hurt. 

It took all of Dean's efforts, and reassurance before Sam finally let himself fall asleep in his bed, holding on to him like those many nights in motels all around the country when they used to share a bed. Dean pats Sam's head until he himself had fallen asleep. Thankfully, Sam didn't get any more visions or nightmares. He just woke up hungry. So did Dean, who luckily managed to grab a quick snack while watching some more cartoon with Sam before sternly telling Sam he needed to sleep. 

Gabriel had shot off when he'd heard about Lucifer. He thought that meant that Lucifer is in town. Which seemed more than likely. He'd called a meeting at the precinct to coordinate their search, focusing primary on hotel and motel that looked like what Sam described. He heard Bobby getting in late last night, and he was gone the next day when they woke up. The workload at the station must have doubled considering their manpower are divided into so many directions. Focus one: Julian O'Death. Focus two: Lucifer Kane. Focus three: John Winchester.

Knowing that Bobby and Rufus are heading the team in search for his dad appeases him somehow. He knows that Bobby wouldn't be trigger happy or rash. He knows John, after all, know his way of thinking and his hideouts in Sioux Falls. They hadn't been partners for almost ten years for nothing. But at the same time, knowing that O'Death is still lurking in town gives him goosebumps. They still don't know what he wants, but it's more than obvious his interest is in Sam, and it's no wonder why. 

Sam has The Shining. Dean can still not process it. Things like this don't happen in real life. There's no magic, no mysteries, no sudden illumination. Just people. He'd already came to term a long time ago that people can be the worst thing to happen to you. That they're are the greatest threat. The real danger. Because people are capable of horrific things. Against others, against their own kind. Against a child or a helpless animal. The root of all evil. It's people. 

He's sure O'Death has something to do with how Sam is seeing these visions. Like Gabriel said, he must have done something when Dean is not looking. Well, from now on, Sam is not leaving his sight. And since he's now out of a job, he can afford to spend all his waking moments with Sam until O'Death is captured. He hopes Gabriel can catch him. The man can be childish at times, but Dean had seen him work, and the man can have laser sharp focus when he put his mind on it.

One part of Dean is actually hopeful. If Lucifer is in town, does that mean Castiel is too? Does Castiel know he's here? If he's really in town, who knows? What are the odds that he would round the corner and-

Dean stops dead in his tracks. He must be imagining things. He blinks his eyes a few times, staring at the reflection on the large transparent refrigerator doors that holds all the yogurts and juices. The figure in the glass is walking away from him. He's tall, about six feet and lean. Black unruly hair stands up in places. They’ve grown. Longer now than they used to be, curling at the bottom of his neck right above the collar of his shirt. Longer than they used to be, curling at the bottom of his neck right above the collar of his shirt. And even though Dean hasn't seen him in three months, he can recognize his silhouette anywhere.

Whatever words that are at the tip of his tongue died in his throat when the person exits the aisle to the right, away from Dean and he catches sight of his profile. The sharp nose. The angled contours of his face. Those perfect jawline. The five o'clock shadow. Pink lips. And even from this distance, even if it's just a reflection, he can see the glimpse of blue in those eyes. A blue he's so familiar with. A blue he spent hours looking into. A blue that only belongs to the eyes of someone who looked at her like she’s the only thing that mattered.

And then he's gone. 

Dean blinks, snapping out of his temporary paralysis. He pushes the cart around in a full U-turn and runs down the aisle, heart hammering in his chest. His throat feels dry and damn him to hell, but he thinks he's about to cry. His hands feel cold as they grip the handle bar of the cart. He skids to a stop at the end of the aisle making a sharp right. His eyes search the area, green blazing under the florescent lights. He must look like a mad person, half in tears as he ventures further down the lane, looking down every aisle he comes across. 

The name is on his lips, but he can't make himself to say it out loud. His head snaps from left to right, up and down as he looks and looks. But he's gone. Dean falters to a stop, chest heaving as he feels the first tear drop. He didn't imagine him. He saw him! It was him! He tries to breathe as he spins around, eyes wide and bleary as he takes in the empty lanes and the loitering people _who are not him!_

"Dean?"

Dean turns around so fast he thinks he might break his neck. 

"What's wrong?" Sam asks, staring around too like if he looks hard enough, he can help Dean find what he lost.

Dean bites his bottom lips to stop the whimper he can feel about to escape him. He swallows hard even as he looks around again. His heart hurts. He'd been so sure he can almost feel his presence. He was so close. He was right there. Adam apple bobbing, he clears his throat and waits until he's confident his voice isn't going to fail him.

Shaking his head, eyes still searching he says, "Nothing. Thought I saw Cas."

\---

The sky is a vast blue, no cloud in sight and the sun is shining down bright and warm. Castiel turns his head slightly upwards and closes his eyes, appreciating the hot flush on his cheeks. He lets out a small sigh as tilts his head down, glancing surreptitiously to his sides. Although his face was last on the news almost two months ago, he's not sure how much people still remembered. Just in case, he still keeps to the shadow and to himself while he's out and about. 

It feels nice to be outside. It's not like he's fresh air or sun-deprived because he has plenty of opportunity for that at Michael's place. The man's love for wide spaces provided a lot of full-length glass windows. Most of his free time outside training, he spent curls up with a book near an open window, basking in the sunspots. It was quiet and relaxing. The only thing missing is sharing these quite moments with someone else. He longed for the day he gets to share his little enjoyment. At the end of the day, sharing is what makes the experience more real.

With a sigh, he enters the motel and heads straight for their room. Despite the tranquility Michael's apartment provides, he was still indoor for almost three months. The last time he'd been out was when Michael took him for a drive, and that was just a few days ago. It feels strange to be out in the world again, in the general population. While he was up in Michael's penthouse, it felt like the real world disappeared and he left with a state of being.

Yes, during this time he trained to be an assassin, a killer. But it doesn't feel real. The only people he interacted with were Michael and Lucifer, and it hadn't sunk in that the skill sets he's learning will one day be used in the outside world. People like those he saw on his trip to the supermart. And now lingering the motel halls. Suddenly, he confronted with the very real meaning of being a hired killer. He will be playing God. Choosing which person get to live and who doesn't. And out of the billions people on earth, why does he, Castiel Novak, gets to choose?

It got even harder and more surreal when he was at the supermart, watching as families go about their daily routine, harried mothers with their children, slow moving retired couples and stressed out blue-collared worker cramming in limited groceries time while he was looking for ordinary household equipment that could double as anti-poison gear. He'd heard Michael's message in the car, and he knew what Lucifer needed. He wasn't about to let Lucifer walk into danger unprepared, so he went shopping. 

All he managed to find was plastic gloves and some form of raincoat material trench. He doesn't think it's remotely good enough, but it's better than nothing. Lucifer did bring along a bullet-proof vest which he could wear underneath his clothes. If Death tries to shoot him with any drug induced projectile, the vest should be able to hold it off. But if whatever Death plans to use is of a powdery substance, then the trench would help somewhat. There's a hood on it, so Lucifer could cover his head and part of his face too if needed.

Lucifer might argue about the necessity of them, but it's better to be safe than sorry, so Castiel bought it anyway. As well as some sweet treats from the nearby bakery for Lucifer. He bought enough coffee for the three of them as well as some coffee packets. If he's going to have to stand guard the whole day, he's going to need all the caffeine he can find. Considering that he won't be allowed to go out for lunch break, he'd bought some instant noodles and sandwich packages. 

Knocking on the door, he waits. A moment later, he hears the latches rattling and the door swings open. Lucifer is fully dressed and based on his wet hair, looks like he'd showered. "Cassie! I was about to call a manhunt on your ass. What took you so long?" he asks, looking left and right before dragging him in. "You weren't recognized, were you?"

Castiel shakes his head. "No. I was careful." He holds up the bag with the gloves and trench in it. "Bought you some things you could use for later." 

Lucifer frowns at the bag before taking it from him and examines the content. "Really, Cassie? You think I'm going to wear this hideous thing out in public?" he asks, holding up the dull yellow raincoat. "How about no?" he says, putting them back in the bag. "Plus it's not even raining. People might think I'm crazy, and I plan to be as inconspicuous as possible." He gestures at his face. "Still a wanted man, hello?" He digs around in the bag and pulls out the gloves. "These might come in handy," he comments, flicking the plastic material in Castiel's direction. "Thank you, Cassie."

"I'm not asking you to wear the trench now. Just bring it along and wear it before confronting him. You heard Michael. You're unprepared. What if-"

"There's no what if. And I thought I left the nagging know-it-all at home. Why are you on his side anyway?" Lucifer mutters, opening the bakery box, instantly lighting up at the assortment of pastries inside. He grabs a Danish that's covered in sweet sugary substance and bites into it, moaning as the chocolatey goo squeezes out. "This is- oh my god, it's still warm." He licks his lips, careful not to let one drop of chocolate goes to waste. 

"Ugh, you're disgusting," Meg says from where she's trapped in her chair. 

"Haters gonna hate," Lucifer rolls his eyes, taking a bigger bite out of the pastry. Even Castiel has to agree with Meg. Those are teeth rotting, belly turning sweetness. He shudders, grabbing for the more subtle powdered sugar donut. 

"Michael's right. You're underestimating the enemy."

"Trust me. I'm not. I have my gun. I have my vest. And I have my wits about me. Not to mention, there's only one of him. He can't surprise me. You all worry too much."

"You do know we worry because we care about you, right?"

Lucifer places his hands over his heart, giving him an 'aww' expression. Shaking his head, Castiel bites into his breakfast. "I promise I'll come home safe." On a more serious note, he adds. "I am prepared. And I want to take the motherfucker who's got it out for me down. Once and for all. Then, we'll finally get some peace. Not that the life of a hired killer has much peace to begin with, but at least, we don't have to worry about unseen bullet at the back of our heads."

"I know why you're doing this. I never questioned your reasons. But like Michael says, why the rush?"

"Every second the contract is out there is a second where you and Michael might die in my name. I will not let that happen. Not if I can help it. The sooner we get this settled, the better."

The donut feels like it's stuck halfway down his throat. It's with much difficulty that he swallows it down. Castiel stares at the man in front of him, who's busy gobbling down more of the sweet pastries. Something warm trickles into his heart, slowly settling there making a home for itself. The corner of his lips tilts up as he takes another bite of his donut. "Well, thank you for caring," he says.

"I care about you, Castiel."

"Oh, don't tell me you're falling for his crocodile tears, Clarence?" Meg pipes up from her corner. "He's the man who sold you. Remember all those time he let strange men touched you? Fucked you? Does he care about you then?"

Castiel glances up at her before sliding his eyes back to Lucifer. The man shrugs. "Angels are bright still," he says before continuing to devour the last piece of coffee flavor croissant and standing up, brushing his hands in front of him. "Though the brightest fell."

Castiel lowers his eyes. Even though Lucifer isn't saying much to defend himself, he doesn't need to. He'd apologized. And ever since then, he had tried to make Castiel life better. He was there when he needed him, and he always made sure to ensure Castiel felt included in their trio. He knows it's not always easy seeing as the man is in love with Michael but is too stubborn to admit it let alone confess his feelings. Michael is a good man. He was never rude to Castiel or snubbed him just because they were sleeping together but treated him fairly, like an equal.

To be very honest, he feels at home with them despite his occasional downward spiral.

A small smile appears at the corner of his lips, and he turns to face Meg. She's staring at Lucifer with daggers in her eyes. "We all have our flaws. It's what we do after our mistakes that counts."

Meg stares at him with disbelieving eyes before she snorts. "Yeah, right. I don't believe you. You can act all high and mighty and forgiving and shit, but I don't buy it for a second. We all have weaknesses. And yours, Clarence, is that you're still so fucking naive and trusting. One day, this man is going to be the death of you. And by that time, it's too fucking late. Wake up now, idiot!" she shouts, eyes wild. 

"That's your problem, Meg. You have no faith. Good things do happen."

"No. Good things don't just happen. You have to fight for it. With everything you've got."

"What happened, Meg? What happened to you?"

Meg stares at him, eyes dark before they flick to Lucifer, who's packing his backpack. It doesn't escape his notice that he packed the trench he'd bought him. The man unloads and reload his gun and tests the mechanism to ensure they don't jam. Turning his attention back at Meg, the brunette is now smiling at him, the same sly smile that always decorate the corner of her lips. "Buy me a lapdance and I'll tell you," she drawls.

"Be nice, children. Daddy's going to work. Promise to be good," Lucifer commands sternly, staring at the both of them, backpack in place and guns stored underneath his coat. "Castiel, make sure your mobile is always ready in case I call and don't let Meg out of your sight. We need her if things go sour. You think you can handle that?"

Castiel gives him an unimpressed look. "Michael didn't train me for nothing, Luci," he says dryly. 

Lucifer claps his hands together. "Well, then. Wish me luck. Who knows, by the end of today, we'll both be going our separate ways, never to see each other again. Never would too soon," Lucifer adds, smiling derisively at Meg. Meg sneers back at him, rolling her eyes distastefully. He gives Castiel a small nod before strolling to the door and making his dramatic exit. Castiel shakes his head when the door finally closes leaving him alone with Meg.

"So, what should we do to pass the time?" she drawls giving him a come-hither look.

"I'm not playing your games, Meg," he says getting up to lie in bed. If he's going to be stuck here the entire day, he might as well get comfortable. Picking up his phone, he checks his message. His heart stops when he sees a notification from Facebook Messenger. He hesitates for only a moment before opening the message. 

hey jimmy. do u have time to talk? i need u.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some Destiel. Who's excited to see how this will turn out?


	16. Chapter 16

_You're cheating. You're supposed to start with a fact about yourself._

jimmy! sry. ok, hw bout i have green eyes. wat color eyes do u have? let me guess. an ugly red?

_I'm not sure what sort of creature you think I am, but I promise I don't have red eyes. My eyes are blue._

blue. huh. somehow i kinda already guessed that.

_You said red, Dean._

blue suits u.

_How would you know? You still don't know how I look like._

mayb its time we changed that

_Nice try, Dean._

*roll eyes* i knew u would say that. so what r u doing in sioux falls? arent u from someplace far away in a land i dont know?

Castiel stares at the message debating. 

"I'm bored. Stop texting and entertain me," Meg calls from across the room.

Castiel looks up and arches a brow. "I thought you're more than capable to entertain yourself?"

Meg's smile turn even more sly as she tilts her head to the side and gives him a look. "I like it when you talk dirty, Clarence. But my hands are a little tied right now," she comments looking down where she's moving her fingers in a 'see?' motion. "A little help? I promise I won't bite. Unless that's something you're into," she drawls. "Say, what _are_ you into? Let me guess. Dom/sub play?" 

Castiel's eyes widen, and Meg smiles in victory. "I knew it! You're a kinky little bastard, aren't you? So, what are you? Dom or sub? I bet you're the dom, but then you're also such a bottom. I bet you're also into orgasm denial-"

"Don't make me put you in the bathroom, Meg," he warns, heart beating too fast and the flush he feels coloring his cheeks isn't helping matters. How did Meg know? Is it so obvious? Is there a word stamped across his forehead that says 'pervert'? Suddenly the room feels too small and too warm. He swallows. 

"I never said it was a bad thing. Chill, Clarence. It's good you have your kinks. Something that makes you twitch in your pants," Meg reassures. His face must not be convincing because a second later she adds, "There's nothing wrong with having a diverse sexual appetite. Like there's nothing wrong with being bi or gay or asexual. I mean, you're not ashamed of being gay, are you?"

"No," he says shaking his head. "And I'm bisexual," he corrects. 

Meg's eyes light up, and her smile grows wider. "Interesting. Well, it's the same as sex. What works for you doesn't necessarily works for others but who's to say what right and wrong. I love vanilla flavor ice cream doesn't mean that other can't enjoy durian flavor even though it's yucky and disgusting but hey, whatever rows your boat. You like dom/sub play. Good for you!"

Castiel doesn't reply her, instead stares down at his screen. 

"Have you tried it?" Meg asks. Sighing, he looks up again and gives Meg one of his most blank expression. Meg wriggles her eyebrows at him. 

"Who's the lucky boy? Or girl? Or is it-" she drawls staring right at his phone, a smirk plastered on her lips, "whoever it is you're texting? Are you sexting, Clarence? Is that why you can't seem to keep your hands off that damn thing the entire time? Waiting for you sub to show up? He or she should be punished for letting you wait. Just a tip," she says darkly winking.

It takes him only a moment of hesitation before he gets up to his feet and strides over to Meg. She stares up at him with a frown on her face before turning into a scowl when he turns her around. It's tough because she's not as light as she seems and his leg still hurts, but he manages. 

"Not fair! I want to watch!" she protests, struggling against the bonds. He walks over to Meg's phone and opens up her music app before plugging his headphone into it. Going back to the brunette, he sticks the buds in her ears ignoring her curses and snappy retorts. Satisfied, he gives her a victorious smile before climbing back into bed. 

_Sorry. An annoying fly was irritating me._

ur not talking in code n that annoying fly is actually me. right?

_What? No, Dean. You're never annoying._

even when i bug u about showing me ur face?

_Even when you do that, yes._

if u send me a picture of ur face, i'll send u a pic of me in my birthday suit

_Nice bribe but no cigar._

*pouts* worth a try. hey jimmy, can i ask u something?

_Anything, Dean._

wat do u look like? im just curious. u can just describe it in words. pls?

Castiel stares at the message, biting his lips. _Why?_

bcoz i want 2 be able 2 picture u when i jerk off 2 u. dont u want that? knowing i come undone 2 the thought of u

Castiel's heart stutters as he licks his chapped lips. Yes, that is something that he wants very badly. It might be selfish or possessive of him, but he wants Dean to come and only come to him. The thought that Dean wants that too makes his mouth go dry. But Dean thinks you're Jimmy his brain reminds him. But Jimmy is Castiel. It makes no differences at the end, does it? If you say so his brain supplies. Choosing not to analyze the situation any further, he types out his reply. 

_Okay. Well, I have blue eyes, dark hair and I guess you could call it a tanned complexion. I'm almost 6 feet tall with an adequate body. I can't seem to get rid of my stubble no matter how hard I tried. I would shave this morning and by noon, they're back. People would describe me as 'angelic' looking but trust me I'm not. Men complimented my lips a lot. Apparently, I have cocksucking lips. And a tight ass. What else do you want to know?_

Dean doesn't answer back immediately. In fact, he waited so long that Castiel thought he might have said something wrong and went back to reread his message. He doesn't think he'd let anything slipped. He's halfway freaking out when Dean's reply comes through.

men?

Castiel frowns at the word. _Yes, men. Why? You do know I'm interested in men considering what we've done in the past._

no. no yes. i know ur into dudes. just- the way these 'men' describe u, n u using the same words 2 describe urself, idk. doesnt it feel kind of demeaning?

Oh. Castiel didn't realize he'd used the exact words the johns used on him. Didn't even realizes how wrong that must sound. He panics, wondering how he could cover up his error. His fingers hover over the screen, but he doesn't know what to say. All he can do is stare at Dean's reply and panics. 

jimmy is there something u want to tell me? did something happened 2 u?

Castiel's heart jumps into his throat, and he starts to perspire. His heart is thudding so hard he thinks they're about to explode. He doesn't know why he did it, but it's out there before he can ponder too much about it. _Yes._

There's a moment of silence where Castiel guesses they're both staring at the lighted screen in front of them. 

do u want 2 talk about it?

_No._

ok. i respect that. i just want to tell u that whatever those men said, it doesn't describe u. its their perverse way of looking at u. its not u. dont describe urself that way. ur so much more.

Castiel's eyes prickle and his nose tingles. His face feels hot and stuffy. _How do you know I'm not what they say I am?_

because ur a person. there so much more to a person than what u can see.

_Like what?_

now ur just angling 4 compliment. u asked 4 it. so dont blush. one. ur a dork. two. u make me laugh. three. ur sexy as hell n not becoz of how u look but the way u write. ur thought process. u made me come with just ur words. who does that? four. ur ridiculous. who doesnt know wat idk stands 4? five. shit happens. but u dealt with it. there might be some scars left behind but ur alive n ur here n thats what matters. six. u think no one loves u but thats not true. seven. there r ppl out there who cares about u. who worries about u. who cant sleep at night becoz they're scared shitless about what happened 2 u. eight. ur the most selfless person i know. nine. u never asked for anything in return even if ur heart begs 4 it. ten. im so sorry. im so sorry i was a useless coward who let u walked away when u needed me the most. im so sorry. I'm so sorry, Cas. Please come home.

Tears well up as he reads Dean's message, but when he reaches the end of the of it, his heart stops. He stares at the words, unable to tear his gaze away. 

_I'm so sorry, Cas._

He knew. 

Dean _knew._

\---

The sun is burning down on the metal hood of the car making it hard for him to see the road properly. The glares reflect from the dark metallic surface to shine in his eyes. Lucifer squints, slipping on his sunglasses. Not much better. He stares at the screen on his dashboard. Cosmic Bed and Breakfast, 5 minutes to destination. He glances back up at the road, debating slightly if he should call Michael or not. He wants to. Sort of hoping to get a 'Be safe, honey' kind of farewell but ultimately deciding against it.

Michael might still be pissed, and he doesn't want to get in a fight right before a literal fight. Or succumbs himself to another spiel on safety measures and not-so-subtle jabs about his recklessness. Nah, he'll call when he's done. A rock settles at the bottom of his stomach. Despite all his exterior bravado and nonchalance, he is anxious. Trepidation racks his body. Death is an unmatched opponent, someone he would never take on if it's not necessary. His style and method are completely different from his, and Lucifer has no experience whatsoever to deal with someone like him.

In a way, Michael is right. But what else can he do? He's not going to sit by and let his mess tears his family apart. Michael. Castiel. They're his family now, and he has the responsibility to see them safe. Plus, when was it ever not dangerous? Ever since he'd enlisted in the army to his subsequent rise into special forces and later his partnership with Michael, every time he left for a job, his life was always on the line. He had never thought much about it before. Never really felt the pressing weight of his mortality.

So why are there butterflies in his belly? And why does his heart feels so heavy?

Because you have something to lose now, Lucifer. 

\---

The world seems to compress down to the tiny rectangular square in front of him. The sun shines softly through the open window. The breezes rustle the light curtain beside it. Light filters through glassy green eyes brimmed with tears. Dean stares down at the phone in his hands body hunched forward where he'd been sitting cross-legged on his bed. He stares and stares, hands clenching and unclenching on the small device. His lips are red and raw where he'd been biting at them. 

Beside him in a small pile is Sam, who'd fallen fast asleep after their run at the supermart. He'd only gotten a few hours of sleep the night before, so it's no wonder he's out like a light once his head touched the pillow. Dean, on the other hand, is a mess. He knows he saw Castiel at the supermart earlier. It had to be him. Add to the fact that Lucifer might be in town the chances are high that the figure was Castiel. The whole incident bugged him the entire way back, and it refused to leave him alone.

He's missing something. 

_"Think smart, Deano. Not everything is as it seems."_

_"Well, you can be quite blinded sometimes. Even when said subject is staring at you right in the face."_

Suddenly, Gabriel's cryptic words don't seem so cryptic anymore. Lucifer is in town. He saw a person this morning that look a hell of a lot like Castiel. A random stranger struck up a conversation with him online. A stranger who's adamant not to let Dean sees his face. A stranger whose actions and manner of speaking feel so familiar it's like having déjà vu. A stranger who's also currently in town. How had he not seen it before? He'd been talking to Castiel this entire time!

Feeling the rush of adrenaline that came with his epiphany, Dean had sent Jimmy, no, Castiel a text. They needed to talk. He needed to make sure.

And now he's staring at his screen, heart broken into a million pieces but never more convinced than he'd been about something. Jimmy N. is Castiel James Novak. All this time, he'd been talking to freaking Castiel. A part of him is flying high with joy that Castiel doesn't hate him. At least, doesn't hate him enough to cut off all ties with him. He initiated contact. That has to mean something. Part of him had been afraid that Castiel is done with him. With them. The way he looked at him, the resignation in his eyes before he walked away, he thought that's the end. Castiel's done. 

It's mainly the reason Dean's so adamant to find him. If he doesn't, he'll never see Castiel again. And he will never be able to amend the worst decision of his life. 

Now, he'd been given a second chance. He's not going to screw this up.

So he waits. And waits. Until the green dot turns gray.

\---

Lucifer hesitates in the parking lot of the frankly too homey B&B. It's one of those antique you're-in-a-country type B&Bs. There's a small two stories cottage in front, but Lucifer can see the scatter of houses at the back, littering by the winding path down to God knows where. So this is the tiny bungalow type place. Of course. Trust Death to hole up in places like this. It's so quiet here. And still. And the houses at the back looks like the perfect place to murder someone and dumped their body in the forest surrounding the place.

Very 'No Vacancy' type horror. 

Shaking his head in resignation, he digs out the backpack and pulls out the trench Castiel bought and put it on. There're only one cars parked out front, so he doubts there are many people in this place. Even if there are, he's not going pass the reception. He's got the key. All he needs is to find the house the key unlocks. Which shouldn't be so hard seeing that the number of the house is printed on the keychain the key is attached to.

The number 7 is printed in huge black block number. 

Pulling on the gloves, he takes out the tie-rips and stuff them in his back pocket. As he approaches the side of the building, in the covers of the trees there, he takes out his gun. Leaning with his back against the paper white wooden walls, he makes his way to the back, glancing around to make sure that no one is coming down the path to the entrance. Once he's at the back of the house, he spots the signpost in the middle of the track. 

Squinting, he can just make out the numbers and directions scrawled there. Houses 7-10 are towards the back of the lands. Right. Just his luck. He peers around, staring at the windows of the tiny bungalows in the area. Most of them have their drapes shut. Probably empty. But he's not willing to take the risk. Deciding it's better to sneak through the less traveled route, he tries to blend himself into the surrounding if only the trench Castiel bought him is a camouflage. 

At least, it's a dull yellow. 

Branches snags at the bottom of his jeans as twigs cracks beneath the soles of his boots. The birds are chirping, and the insects are buzzing. Nothing but nature. The sun filters in and out in places where the trees are further apart or when the leaves move with the slight breezes. He can see the beauty of the area. It's very peaceful. And serene. If he's not here to tries to torture and murder someone, he would appreciate it too. But adrenaline is being pumped through his veins for him to be able to enjoy the view or the atmosphere much. 

As he nears the last few houses at the back, he slows to a stop. Bungalow number 7 is at the far left of the place, a small corner surrounded by bushes with its back to the forest. The front door is facing the other side, away from the other houses. From the looks of it, it's a one person bungalow. It has a quaint looking porch out front. A wooden chair sits in the corner. The walls are made of white washout planks, and it has a mosslike roof overhead. The sun filters through the leaves above it, casting long streams of light onto the place. It's very picturesque. 

The drapes are open, and he could just see inside. He can't see much in this distance, so he moves closer until he's back against the side of the building, the one facing the forest. He's more careful with his footstep, making sure not to make any sound as he creeps slowly towards the window. Once he's right beside it, he takes a deep breath and peers in. He sees an armchair. In front of it is the television. It's on. A hand lies atop the armrest of the chair, twirling the walking stick leaning against it. 

He peers around, noticing that the living area and the bedroom is a space of their own, with no view into the hallway where the door is. He sees the archway that leads to said corridor and in position, he can only see the wall and the coat hanger there. And from where Death is sitting, directly to the side of it, there's no way he's able to see the door. Lucifer just has to be careful not to make any noises. 

Ducking back to the side of the window, he crouches low and approaches the porch. He skips the two steps there, heading straight for the upper landing. He creeps to the door and slips the key into the keyhole. Very slowly and carefully, he turns the key. The door opens without a sound. Good. He steps inside, grateful for the welcome carpet. He can hear the noises from the television in the other room. A very high tempo suspense music. Death must be watching an old classic horror film or something. 

His heart thrums with the notes, going higher and higher and he has to force himself to take a breather. Calm the fuck down. This is _not_ the soundtrack of life. This is not a scary thriller. You're here to do a job so fucking do it like a professional. Feeling much calmer, he toes of his shoes and pads his way down the hall in his socks. When he's at the mouth of the archway, he counts to three. 

One. Two. Three.

Then, he moves into the room, gun held out in front of him. 

"Hello, Death."

It's then that he can see that something is seriously off. The man is sitting calmly in his chair, fingers still twirling his walking stick. The contour of his head is wrong, disproportionate and the angles are misplaced. Things are sticking out in places where it shouldn't. He can't pinpoint exactly what it is. Not until Death turns around to face him. 

Fuck.

The man is wearing a gas mask. 

\---

Dean stares at the gray dot, blinking before he jumps off the bed. No. Castiel didn't just went offline on him. No. He glares at the phone in front of him as if staring hard enough at the gray dot is going to automatically make it green. NO!

He quickly types out a text.

cas?

CAS! 

i know its u. pls dont run off again. we can talk about this. pls!

cas?

He stares at his messages. Stares at the gray dot. Stares at the unread symbols beside each of his text, mocking him. He growls, gripping his phone hard fighting the urge to smash it against the wall. Fuck! He glares at the room at large, unsure of what to do but feeling his emotions running high. He rubs his head, wiping down the side of his face with his hand before covering his mouth with it. Castiel is here. In town. With Lucifer. Whom O'Death wants. His heart is beating so hard. His brain is trying to form a logical course of action and everything is a blur. 

He swallows before staring at his phone again. Swiping the screen, he looks up his contact before holding his phone to his ear waiting for the call to connect. 

"Deano!"

"Gabriel. It's Castiel. Jimmy, the guy I've been talking on the phone. It's fucking Castiel!"

"I know."

Something in his brain snaps. "What?" he splutters. "What do you mean _you know?_ "

"I suspected. But I didn't want to tell you just in case you blabbed, and Castiel goes offline. I've been trying to track his whereabout using his social media platform but seeing as he's not online most of the time it's hard to zoom in on his online activity and then figure out from which router he's using and then uses it to identify his mobile device to finally set a track and trace on said device yadda yadda yadda a lot of nerd talk I don't even know, but I assumed, based on the very happy tone of my colleague that you guys had another sexting rendezvous because guess what?"

Dean's brain has been trying to keep up with what Gabriel is spouting when it screeches to a complete halt. "What?" he asks, not daring to let himself hope, but his heart still thrums with anticipation. 

"We've got him, Dean."

Dean can hardly believe his ears. His eyes start to water as he opens and closes his mouth, unable to speak. "You found him?" he chokes out last, voice soft and rough.

"Yes, Dean. We're bringing him in."

\---

Lucifer tries to shoot, but his trigger finger doesn't seem to want to cooperate. In fact, his whole body appears to be paralyzed. Crap.

He stares at his finger, trying to focus all his energy and effort to make it move, twitch, whatever. Just do something! But his hand is still, held outstretched in front of him, useless and frigid. He flicks his gaze at the man in the armchair again, blue eyes wild. Death is just sitting there, staring at him eerily, still and silent and the fucking crescendo from the television is pissing him off. His breathing starts to become shallow, short sharp bursts of breath. 

Sweat beads on his forehead, dripping down onto his lashes and eyes. He blinks furiously, clearing his vision. Why is he sweating so much? When did it get so warm inside? He's burning. He can feel a red hot flush pulsing through his body, up and down his spine. His face feels inflamed like everything is on fire. The inside of his mouth is dry and swollen. It's the feeling you get just before you get sick, when your tongue swells up, and no matter what you do, you keep biting down on them. Like some sort of inflammation.

His vision starts to blur, and he blinks again. This time, though, the fog stays. Death starts to blur around the edges. The masks he's wearing blends into his face making him seems like monsters from children's nightmare. The blurred figure moves and then he's standing up. Lucifer can physically feel his pupils dilate as his eyes widen, trying to capture the full length of the person standing in front of him. He's like the Slenderman, looming above him. There's no feature where his face should be. Just a blank white. 

His heart races, thudding triple the time it's supposed to. Fuck. If it continues this way, he's going to get a heart attack. Or a stroke. There's a roar is his ear like wind howling. His eyes dart around. He's indoor. What the hell? Then, it dawns on him that what he's hearing is the sound of his blood pumping through his veins. The hand held out in front of him starts to shake. The gun feels extremely heavy. He can't carry it, lift it up or do anything. His body is not his anymore. It's a pile of rubbish. His strength is ebbing away.

Just before his vision blacks out, he hears the thud of the gun falling to the floor and then his world turns upside down. 

\---

Time seems to stand still as Castiel stares at the dark screen of his phone. His mind is a complete blank. Dean knew. How did Dean know?

His heart thuds painfully in his chest. He can't breathe. He thought he'd his worlds separated. The world he belonged and the world he set up with Dean. And they had a good thing going. They can be friends. And Castiel would still have something good in his life. But now, he has to go and fucked it all up. His two worlds collided, and there's only one way this could end. Even now, the thought of going to jail still scares him. 

It doesn't matter that he's equipped with more skills to adequately defend himself because as soon as he's faced with a sexual threat, he knows he's going to freeze or blank out. And then, he's helpless. His imagination runs riots. He's not going to be able to fight back. He'll take the coward's way out, and he will wake up with bruises and aches on his body that he'll never remember getting. And that is going to be his life. Forever and ever. In a never ending loop.

A drop of tear lands on his jeans. He lifts a hand up, brushing his cheeks. His fingers come away wet. 

He stares back at the phone, his mind replaying Dean's last message over and over. 

'You think no one loves you, but that's not true.'

'There are people out there who cares about you. Who worries about you. Who can't sleep at night because they're scared shitless about what happened to you.' 

Dean still cares. Dean hasn't forgotten about him. Dean is worried about him. 

'I'm sorry, Cas.'

More tears slip down Castiel's face as he closes his eyes, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. The memory of the last time he saw Dean flashes through his mind eye. Dean chose his father. Dean chose to leave him. And without Dean, he can't face the prospect of jail. He probably won't even survive the trial. He wanted Dean to stop him. Wanted Dean to tell him to stay. And he would have. If Dean asked him to, he would've stayed. Because it's Dean. 

But he'd stayed quiet. Dean broke his heart. And he shouldn't blame him. Can't blame him because it's his dad. How can he expect Dean to choose him before his father? That's absurd. It doesn't stop him from hurting, though. And now, seeing the words, black against the gray bubble, it's like pouring salt on an open wound. Digging the scab of a healing cut. Poking at an old bruise. It hurts. It's like everything he'd buried down deep inside him is crawling back out, decomposing and ugly. Twisted. 

Dean is sorry. 

But what does it matter anymore? It's too late. They can't go back. 

'Please come home.'

A loud beep startles him out of his thoughts. He looks up, glancing first at his phone first to see if it's the source of the noise. His screen stays black. He hears movement and his eyes snaps in front of him. Meg is moving, stretching her neck and shoulder. "It's over, Clarence," she says in a low voice.

Confused, he untangles himself and gets off the bed. "What do you mean?" he asks as he approaches the brunette cautiously. Remembering the headphone, he pulls them off and repeats his question.

"It's over. Father's won."

A chill runs down his spine as something heavy settles over his chest. He places a hand on the back of the chair as he steps in front of Meg, blue eyes meeting dark, somber ones. The corner of Meg's lips turns up in a sad smile. "I'm sorry, Clarence."

Frowning, he asks. "For what?"

"It was a trick. From the beginning. I lied."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the Destiel feels. I love them so much!


	17. Chapter 17

"What do you mean it was a trick?" 

Castiel stares at the brunette in front of him, brow furrowing as he tries to keep himself from panicking. His heart thuds heavily in his chest as he moves closer to Meg, placing one hand on the back of her chair and leans down. He peers into her dark mascara-smudged eyes, her eyes bright reflecting the tiny orbs in the room. She stares back at him, chin jutting out as she tilts her head backward. There's a stubborn set to her jaws even as her eyes waver underneath his questioning gaze.

"I tricked you," she says as she attempts a smirk. It doesn't come across as convincing as she intended because she's quick to replace it with a hard gaze, lips thinned and eyes narrowed. "Simple as that."

Castiel gazes down at her, confused. "But, why?" he asks, blue eyes searching her face. "I thought you wanted to be free of Death. The man raped you. You were 13, Meg." He shakes his head. "Why?" he asks imploringly. 

A flicker of emotion crosses her face, but it's too fast for Castiel to catch what they mean. Meg's lips curl up into a smile. "You read my files, and you think you know what happened. You and the rest of the world. Oh, poor girl. She's only 13. She's so helpless. Vulnerable," Meg says, mimicking the high pitch quality of a child's voice. "Then, it's- Wow, she's been _around_. Death must be a real good sugar daddy for her to be so docile," she mock-exclaims. Castiel's frown deepens as he straightens up, hand leaving the wooden chair. 

"Let me tell you a secret, Castiel," Meg mock-whispers, the corner of her lips lifting into a sardonic smirk. "It was my choice," she declares dramatically, voice just above a whisper. Then, she leans back and stares up at Castiel, a self-satisfied look on her face. " _I_ singlehandedly crippled our target. Father didn't even know what I've done until after the fact."

Castiel takes a step back, disbelief and hurt warring inside him. Meg was the mastermind all along his brain screams. But somewhere inside his heart, another voice is protesting. No, she can't be. Look at her. _I'm looking at her!_ Look closer. Castiel stops in his steps backward and stares at Meg. The brunette is looking up at him with a proud look on her face, her lips twisted into a scornful smile, dark eyes staring up at him dully. There's no emotion in those eyes. Just flat. He knows that look. He had worn that look. 

Staring back at her defiantly, he asks. "Why did you do it?"

Meg's expression shuttered; the arrogant, egotistical mask replaced by a wide-eyed unguarded look that only surprise can invoke before her expression changes, an angry steel-edge glint seeping into her eyes. "What does it matter why I did it? I did it," she spits out, voice low and menacing. 

"There has to be a reason that led a 13-year-old girl to think that sort of action was necessary. I refuse to believe that you did it purely to get the job done. There has to be more to that."

"What are you? Retarded or something?" Meg snarls. "Oh yes, I almost forgot. You are. You think everyone is good. You think Lucifer is a hero," she spits. "Well, sorry to break it to you, weirdo. The world doesn't work like that. I'm just a money loving bitch who would do anything to get her where she needed to be. The facts are simple. Face it."

Castiel continues to stare at her, refusing to back down. He knows what this is about. Meg is hiding. "A friend once told me the words you used to describe yourself says what you really think of yourself. A 'money loving bitch' is not something you would knowingly describe yourself. Someone fed that line to you. And I'm not going to judge. If you hear the same thing often enough, you will start believing it too. But the Meg I got a glimpse of, the Meg I know who's hiding behind this spiteful mask, isn't the person you're describing."

Meg's eyes start to brim red at the edge and her chin wobbles. He softens his gaze and takes a step closer. "Why did you do it?" he repeats his question, gentler this time.

Meg bites her lips as her eyes well up. She breaks eye contact as she looks to her side, sucking in her cheeks and pursing her lips. Castiel crouches down in front of her, ignoring the way his injured leg throbs and places a hand on her thigh, eyes never leaving the side of her face. A tear slides down her cheeks. Meg steadily refuses to meet his eyes, so he leans in closer, angles his face until there's no place she can look but at him. "Meg?" he calls softly.

She lifts her tear-filled gaze, and he feels a stab of pain at the grief in those dark eyes. They stare at each other for a long time, not speaking, just staring. Meg's eyes are searching. Castiel just stares back at her, blue eyes soft. Then, she smiles and shakes her head, staring down at her lap. "I just want to be loved," she admits, voice soft. "That's all I ever wanted."

Castiel's eyes burn. He gives Meg a gentle squeeze. She lifts her head and stares at him, mascara smudging further as tears brim along the edges, trickling down her face in gray lines. "I just want Father to see me. I know I'm not her, but I can be useful too. And I was," she says earnestly. "I always have. But it isn't enough. It was never enough. Doesn't mean that I have to stop trying. One day, he'll see me. One day, I'll do something so spectacular he will have to _see_ me." Meg's face is so open and sincere it hurts just to look at her.

His heart hurts. He understands what it feels like to need something so bad that you would risk everything, sacrifice anything just to be wanted. It may sound pathetic, how someone could let themselves be so downtrodden, stripped of who they are for the sake of feeling belonged, to feel even remotely loved. But they don't understand. These people who are born with it, they take it for granted. These people who grew up having people who cared, whose trouble and little bruises never went unnoticed, who always have a listening ear, a shoulder to cry on, these people would never understand what it feels like to have none of these things.

They will never know what it feels like to have to be self-reliant because no one will be there to hold your hands. They will never know what it feels like to go to bed at night and dreams of a loving touch, a simple praise or a nice compliment. They will never understand the feeling of loneliness so complete and absolute that it felt like you're the only person in this world, even when you're surrounded by people. How invisible you feel, how insignificant, how inconsequential. And it's not a fleeting feeling, one that you get when you're down or having a bad day. 

The feeling is consistent, build up after years and years of neglect and it become overpowering and that's all you know. In time, you'll reconcile yourself to the fact. You're worthless. You're undeserving. And then you will strive. You will fight. You'd do anything just to feel a token of emotion towards your person, and prays that they're positive. It hadn't matter that he had to sell himself to see the smile on Lucifer's face; that he'd to spread his legs to hear the praises. At least then, he's seen. 

People like them, if they're lucky and somewhere along their life they met someone who truly cares, there's still hope for them. They can still flourish, learn to accept themselves for who they are, try to see themselves the way they do, slowly accept that they're worth something too, that they're loved. Cared for. But if they're unlucky, and they met someone who uses their insecurities against them then, well, stories like Meg and his are born.

He's not stupid. He sees the patterns. He knew what was happening. But knowing doesn't mean he's able to resist it. Able to stop it from happening to him. Stop him from being a number on the statistic. Maybe he's weak. Maybe not all of them are like that. Maybe some found their way out without having to rely on another individual or fall into the pits of hell like him. Unfortunately, he isn't one of them. And he's not bitter about it. He's happy for those who'd found the way, glad that they didn't have to venture down the same road he had. 

He's starting to come to the realization that things can be different. And he wants to have a shot. He's slowly but steadily accepting that he too is deserving of happiness. A shot at a better future. For all that Lucifer has done, the man had come around, and he had made Castiel see. Both Lucifer and Michael. They both have been helping him gain his confidence, one skill at a time. The way they try to include him, the way they integrate him into their daily activities, the way Michael always cooks his part of the meal, the way they would all sit together at the dining table and eat. 

So yes, he understands. He understands how far you will let yourself fall for the sake of that brief glimpse of feeling needed, wanted. "What did you do, Meg?" he asks softly.

"It was all set up. From the beginning. I was in Chicago on a job. And I wasn't bluffing when I said the lookout point was one of my favorite place to visit. It was a coincidence that I saw you and recognized you. But before I confronted you, I called Father. It was his plan all along. To let myself be captured. Led you to believe I was unhappy. That I wanted a way out. That I wanted the money for myself. The phone call, everything was planned. Father was expecting Lucifer. That beep you heard. That's our code. Father's got Lucifer. It's time for me to go home."

Castiel frowns. "What-" 

But he didn't get to finish his question because then Meg's hands are on him, one on his jaw and the other on his shoulder. His eyes widen, too stunned and shocked to react. With one swift move, she has turned him around in a firm chokehold his back pressed up against her breasts. His brain has just enough moment to register a resigned 'fuck' before Meg clenches her arm around his neck, her forearm tight against his throat. Just like Michael had demonstrated a dozen time and this time is no different, the chokehold cut off the oxygen to his brain fast enough that he's out in a second flat. 

\---

"Tell me where he is."

"I don't know if I should tell you, Dean." Gabriel's voice sounds solemn on the other side of the line. 

"Don't fuck around, Gabe. Tell me where he is," he demands. 

"Think about it. Is it smart for you to be there?"

"Gabe!" he growls. 

"I'm not going to sugar coat this, Dean. If Lucifer is with him, things might get ugly."

"That's exactly why I need to be there, Gabe! If this thing goes south, I have to be there. I wasn't there for him the last time, Gabe and look what happened. I can't let him down again. I won't! Please, Gabe. I know I'm not his favorite guy right now and who the fuck knows how far Lucifer has dug himself into Castiel's head, but please, _please_ there's a chance he might listen to me. And you promise," he screams. "You promise you will bring him in _safely_. I trusted you, Gabriel. Don't go back on your words."

Dean is standing outside in the hallway, pacing the wooden floor as he grabs at his hair, eyes bright. There's a long moment of nothing from Gabriel's end. "Gabe?" he calls, voice breaking. 

"Alright. Alright, Dean." There's a muffled conversation at the other end of the line where he hears Gabriel talking with someone and then he's back. "Castiel is at - brace for it, 'Outerdisworld' Motel."

"The what motel?"

"Outerdisworld Motel. Apparently, whoever owns it thinks it's a clever wordplay or something because the place- we've taken the liberty to checked the place out, and can I just say the website makes me want to puke disco balls? I think I may have been blinded by the number of starry light flashing at me from the computer screen. There should be a warning that says, required taste only allowed."

"Okay," Dean says, rushing downstairs. 

"We're on our way out, but seeing as you're not supposed to be there- please don't tell anyone I told you the where Castiel is at, I can't give you a ride. You have to find a way to come over by yourself."

"No worries. Bobby left his car here."

"Oh," Gabriel says.

"You don't have to sound so disappointed, Gabe."

"Well, I'm still having second thoughts about how smart this is."

Dean opens the back door, footsteps loud against the dusty gravel pathway. "You just focus on capturing Lucifer, and I'll focus on Cas."

"Alright, boss."

When he reaches the Trans's house, he knocks. Linda comes to the door a moment later. "Hey Linda, I'm sorry to bug you again, but I really need to go somewhere. And Sam is sleeping. He didn't get much sleep last night after his nightmare, and I don't want to wake him. Would it be too much of me to ask if you and Kevin could hang out at Bobby's for a while? I promise I owe you big after this. You need someone to do your shopping. Done. You need someone to do the dishes. Done. Laundry. Done. Anything," he blurts out in one breath. 

Linda looks at him with her arms crossed over her chest, eyes narrowed. Dean waits, phone in one hand, holding his breath. He half thoughts that Linda is going to ask him to screw himself considering this is the how-many-times-in-a-row he'd bugged her when Kevin peeks his head out from behind her. "Mom," he says, tugging at Linda's blouse, staring up at her with wide eyes. "I don't mind. I want to see if Sam is okay. He was so upset last night."

Linda looks down at Kevin, eyes soft. Then, she sighs, rolling her eyes upward. "Fine. But you owe me a week's worth of chore. If I ask you to do something, the words I want to hear out of your mouth is, yes, ma'am, you hear me?" she asks, giving him the stern mom look. Dean smiles. Despite her intimidating exterior, he can see the twinkle in her eyes. 

"Yes, ma'am!" he says, giving her the soldier salute. "Thank you so much, Linda. I'll be back as soon as I can. I promise," he says even as he's backing down the Trans's lawn. Linda nods, shooing him away as she turns back to grab her purse and keys. He hears Kevin asks, "Can I bring my juice along too? Sam loves it. Maybe it would cheer him up." 

"That's really sweet, Kevin. Of course," Linda says. Looking back over his shoulder, he sees Kevin jumps and squeals before he turns tail and runs inside. "No running in the house!" Linda calls. 

Dean smiles, throwing a "Thank you!" at Linda when she looks over. She gives him a wave and then he's breaking into a run for Bobby's car. It's when he's face to face with the driver side door of Bobby's 1971 Chevrolet Chevelle that he realizes his phone is still in his hands. 

He puts it up to his ear. The line is still open. "Gabriel?" he calls.

The man snorts. "Oh, I thought you've forgotten all about me after you've gotten what you wanted. I felt like I just got dumped after a one night stand."

"Well, a one night stand technically means you're not seeing each other the morning after so-"

"If this is your way of trying to comfort me, I'm telling you now you're failing miserably."

"You're the best, Gabe. Really," he says as he gets into the car and starts the engine. "I'll meet you at the motel."

"See you, Deano."

"Thanks, Gabe," he says, voice brimming with gratefulness that if Dean isn't feeling so anxious right now, he would feel quite embarrassed for. There's a small pause on the other end of the line before Gabriel's warm voice drifts through the speaker, always with the slight lilt that makes him sounds amused or teasing. 

"You're always welcome."

\---

He feels heavy, tired like his whole body is a solid mass of dead weight. Everything is dark. He tries to move but again, too heavy. His thoughts come and go slowly like they're waddling through a swamp filled with weeds. Even so, he's having a hard time processing his thought let alone catch up with them. His brain must have decided to throw in the towel. Again, why is everything so dark?

Oh. 

Your eyes are closed, idiot. 

His eyelids flutter as he tries to open his eyes. A snatch of bright light fills his vision, and he snaps his eyes close, regretting his brilliant choice to do that in the first place. His head throbs, still shimmering with the after effect of the blinding light. It almost feels like he's in a club with the throbbing bass and the flickering light booming in time with the bass. Except now, the leftover light lingers in his brain, fading into nothingness and then reappearing again. His head hurts.

Someone is talking. His ears prick up. Voices filters in and out of his consciousness. He thinks he hears his name. But other words are distorted, sometimes dragged out in one long syllable and other times, sped up in such a manner that it would be funny if he is conscious enough to be aware of it. He swallows. Too late, he realizes his throat is as dry as a sandpaper and he winces. Fuck it. He tries to open his eyes again.

This time, the sliver of light doesn't hurt too much so he blinks and squints. Someone is standing in front of him. All he see is a black. Black coat. Black pants. He shifts his gaze upwards thinking that holy crap this man is tall. It seems like forever before his eyes land on the man's face. The man is staring at him with no expression on his face except for the small motion of his mouth. Death is talking, he realizes belatedly. He can't bring himself to decipher what the man is saying nor does he has the capacity to. 

He has no energy. He can't even bring himself to lift a finger. The effort to open his eyes is enough to drain him for forever he thinks. 

He doesn't know how long he blanks out like that, staring and not staring; listening and not listening. He must look like a fucking comatose crazy patient because he can feel actual drool leaking out of his half-open mouth. Fuck. His mind slips in and out of focus. Sometimes, he's aware enough to see his surrounding. Sometimes, he's so out of it, he completely blanks out, eyes still open but he's completely gone from the room.

At one point, he finds himself staring into Death's eyes. Death tilts his head up, holding onto his jaw. He stares at the man, unable to do anything but stare. Death is looking at him like he's a fascinating specimen, a new species or some shit like that, beady black eyes big, almost round as he turns Lucifer's head from side to side, watching, staring, analyzing. Lucifer wants to tell the man to go fuck himself, but all that comes out is a gurgle.

"Shhh. It's going to be okay," Death says, letting go of his face. Lucifer's head falls forward, his chin almost touching his chest. "I'm just going to inject you with a little something. You won't feel a thing. In fact, you won't feel much for a long while."

Lucifer's mind is slow on the uptake, but it clicks after a moment or two. He starts to panic when he sees Death produces a syringe from the pocket of his coat. He tries to scream, tries to shout for the man to go away, don't fucking touch him. But again, only gurgles come out. His panic turns into hysteria when Death takes a hold of his arm and taps gently where his veins are, pulling bright blue-green color to the surface. 

He stares transfixed as the man pushes the tip of the needle into his flesh and watches as the liquid in the syringe disappears. Death pulls out, throwing the used needle into the rattan basket by the table. He's still staring at the small dot of blood that pool up in a bead on his arm when Death speaks again. "Don't worry. It'll be like falling asleep." 

Lucifer stares up at the man, eyes bright. He doesn't want to die. There are so many things he wants to do. He didn't even get to say goodbye. A tear slips down the corner of his eyes, rolling down the side of his face to pool at the hair just above his ears. He's not ready. Without his consent, his eyes start to fall shut as another trickle of tear escapes. 

\---

Dean stares at the phone in his hand as he drives one-handed on the highway. He knows it isn't safe, but he needs Google Map to point him in the right direction. Plus, he'd been driving since the age of 15, he can almost, _almost_ drive blind. He flicks his gaze back to the road, noting that he has to turn right in about 5 minutes. The trip to the motel takes about half an hour. It’s all the way on the motel is on the other side of town, directly opposite from where they're staying.

His heart is thudding crazily in his chest he thinks they're about to explode. He's going to see Castiel. In about- he glances down at the phone again, 10 minutes, he's going to see Castiel again. His heart throbs painfully at the thought. After three months, he's going to see the person who'd sacrificed almost everything for him. The person who confronted his personal devil to help him, to save him. To save Sam. The person who had killed because of him. The same person who then held him in his arms as they laid beside each other in bed and whispered 'I love you'.

Dean swallows. He hopes that still the case. He wouldn't be surprised if Castiel changed his mind. After all, what had he done to deserve his love? Nothing. Not a damn fucking thing. Oh, if you count his walking out on Castiel as something then yes, he did fucking something. His grip on his phone tightens as he thought back to the day. He's not going to let Castiel leave again this time. He's going to stand by him through everything. If there's going to be a fucking trial, then he's going to be at all the court hearings. He's going to hold Castiel's hand through it all. He's not going to let Castiel down this. He won't. 

Watching as the intersection to which he needs to take the exit draws closer, he flicks the turn signal on before moving into the slower lane. Just as he switch the signal off, his phone begins to vibrate in his hand. He glances at it, annoyed that someone would call at such an inopportune time. He needs to see the map goddamnit. But whatever irritation he had felt disappears upon seeing the number flashing on his screen. 

Concerned, he swipes the screen to answer. 

"Linda?" 

"Dean," Sam whispers. 

"Sam?" he asks, surprised. "What are you doing on Linda's phone."

"I have to call," Sam says. The boy is still whispering. 

Feeling more disturbed by the minute, he asks. "What's up, buddy?"

"Please don't kill her. Please don't be the bad guy in my dreams, Dean."

It's like stepping into a cold shower. "What?" he asks intelligently. 

"Please don't kill her, Dean. Please," Sam begs, voice still so soft Dean has to strain to hear everything. 

"Who?!"

"The black hair woman!" Sam cries. "Promise me!"

"Okay, okay I promise," Dean shouts alarmed by Sam's sudden outburst. "I promise I won't kill anyone."

"And you never break your promises, right?"

"Never."

"Good."

"Did you have another nightmare again, Sammy?" Dean asks, feeling a dreaded feeling creep up on him. 

"Yes," comes Sam's small voice that sounds even tinier over the phone. 

Fuck. But before Dean can say anything else, Sam adds. "There's more, Dean. I saw Cas." Now his voice is even softer, almost like he doesn't dare to speak out loud. Like saying whatever he saw would make it happen or worst, comes true. Dean's freezes as he feels every drop of blood in his body turn cold. Even his knuckles that are resting on the wheels underneath the bright sunlight feels lightweight, unfeeling yet tingling.

"What did you saw, Sam?"

Sam's voice is choked up like how they would sometimes get when he's trying hard to be brave and not cry, heavy and deep. It's hard to make out the words through the phone, but Dean hears it anyway, clear as day. 

"Don't let Cas die. Please don't let Cas die."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck. I made myself cry. Please don't kill me.


	18. Chapter 18

Staring at the exit that is fast approaching, Dean grips the steering wheels tight. The sun is warm on his skin, but he feels cold. Empty. He stares at the exit, green eyes turning a bright emerald green under the bright flare of the sun over the hood of the car. He grits his teeth and clenches his jaws. 

_"They're at Cosmic Bed and Breakfast."_

_"Are you sure it's not Outerdisworld Motel?"_

_"I saw the keys, Dean."_

_"Are you sure? Like hundred thousand percent sure?"_

_"It's the same place I saw Lucifer! The one with the quaint teacup set!"_

_"What?"_

_"Just trust me, Dean! It's Cosmic and not whatshisname."_

Dean stares at the exit. It's almost like he's having a fight of will with it. The sign board mocks him. The curve of the road leading out from the highway taunting him. Dean's knuckles are white with how hard he's gripping the wheels. The passing little posts on the side of the road almost look like vivid neon lights, flashing at Dean with every single one he passed. 3 miles. 2 miles. 1 mile. 

Ah, fuck.

Dean flicks the turning signal at the last minute and pulls the car out into the left lane. A car honks behind him, but he never let up on the gas, pushing the car ahead and getting back to speed with the other cars in the fast lane. His heart beats rapidly in his chest, and he can feel the adrenaline pumping in his veins. Sam better be right about this. Because if Castiel is at Outerdisworld and not Cosmic, then it would be a second time he'd let him down. 

Quickly typing in the address to Cosmic Bed and Breakfast in Google Map, he clicks enter. And waits. 

Destination in 5 minutes.

He only needs to take the next exit. And a little further down the road, take a right into a secluded patch where the beginning of the forest are. That's where the bed and breakfast is located. Flipping his phone shut, he slips it into his pocket. Stepping on the gas pedal, he floors it. I'm coming, Cas. I won't let anything happen to you. Stay put. I'm coming.

\---

When Castiel comes to, he hears the sound of something heavy being placed on the ground. Something wooden from the cuffing sounds it made. There are numerous footsteps in the room. He thinks there are more than three people in the room. He tries to open his eyes. The sun shines in through the window on his left a few feet in front of him, casting a long pillar of light on the floor vertically from him. The glare blinds him momentarily. He squints. Everything is a blur at first but after a moment, his vision starts to focus. He's staring straight at a coffin. A solid black thing with golden handles. It's empty. He blinks, confused as to what he's looking at.

Looking down, he sees that his wrists are tied to the chair he's currently sitting. He tries to move his legs but no such luck. They're bound too. Lifting his head, he surveys the place he's in. He's placed in a corner, an old retro looking television on his right, in a room that sorts of double as a living room and bedroom. The coffin occupies the space in the middle of the living room just in front of him. The sight of it gives him goosebumps. He looks up. He was right in his estimation. There are two men at the end of the room, near the small quarter with the bed. They're leaning over it like they're trying to lift something.

It's then that he notices the socked feet peeking out from between them, on the mattress. The men each pulls an arm on either side. A figure appears, propped up between them. Castiel's eyes widen. Lucifer! Something is wrong, though. Lucifer looks pale, his face white as sheet. There's hardly any color on his face even his lips looks bloodless. Lucifer hangs limply in the men's grip, body moving as he's manhandled around. 

Castiel glances around in panic, hoping to find something, a way to escape, _someone_. That's when he notices Meg leaning on the small dresser to his right in front of a large window by the television. Meg is staring at the men too, expression blank. He grits his teeth as he watches the brunette. Breathing hard, he turns back to the men who are busy lifting Lucifer between them and carrying him towards the coffin. 

He watches as they lay Lucifer's body inside, arranging him in a pose that is befitting someone who's supposed to be inside a coffin. He looks out of place in his t-shirt and jeans, lying on the silky white linens. Not that it mattered. What is Lucifer doing in a coffin?! What are they doing to him? And most importantly, is he dead or alive? A strangled sound escapes his throat when they close the casket, hiding Lucifer from view. He watches them lift the coffin, ready to carry it outside the room. 

"Wait, what are you doing? Where are you taking him?" he demands. The men ignore him like they didn't even hear him talking. "Answer me!"

"It's over, Clarence. The job is done."

"It's not too late. Tell them to stop," he demands. He turns his head to stare at her, blue eyes pleading. "Meg, please. You don't have to do this. If it's money you want, we can work something out. I'm sure Michael has enough to buy the contract. Just please," he begs desperately as the men disappear from view. He hears the sounds of them maneuvering the coffin around the corner before the noise starts to fade. "Tell them to stop!"

"I can't."

"You can! You just won't!" he snaps feeling anger washes over him. "I believed you, Meg. I trusted you."

"I've warned you. You wouldn't listened."

Glaring at the brunette, eyes brimming with angry tears, he snaps his mouth shuts. "You should thank me. Lucifer is gone. You're free," she says, turning towards him, eyes wide. "You'll be happy here, I promise. I'll make you feel happy again. Together, we can be happy. You and I. We could make each other feel needed, loved. Am I right, Clarence?" Meg approaches him, a toothy smile on her face. She leans down in front of him, hands on his thighs. 

"You cared, remember?" she murmurs, brushing his cheek with her fingers. "That doesn't change?" 

"Meg," he says, voice soft and sad. "You betrayed me."

"I have to!" she says, eyes wide as she looks at him, pleading for him to understand. And he does. He _does._

"I know," he murmurs.

Meg smiles. "I know you'd understand," she says, leaning closer as she lets their forehead touches. "My unicorn."

\---

The location to the bed and breakfast is as secluded as it had looked on the map. There's nothing in the neighborhood for miles, none that he can see. The building stands alone among the greenery, tall bushes at the sides and trees in the background. At least, there's a parking lot albeit a very tiny one. He thinks it only fits five cars max and three of the spots are already occupied. There's a large van-like vehicle parked out front right in front of the building entrance. The windows are tinted black. It looks very ominous.

Ignoring it, Dean drives into the small lot and parks Bobby's Chevelle into the narrow space at the end. He might end up using up more space than the spot provides but he can't help it that Bobby has such a large car. Imagine parking the Impala here. Yeah, right. It probably wouldn't even fit. He shakes his head as he turns off the engine and steps out of the car. The sun immediately takes it as a sign to burn the skin off the back of his neck. Squinting his eyes, he looks up at the building just in time to see two men carrying something that looks very much like a coffin out the front door. 

What the fuck? He isn't too late, is he? And that's Castiel?

The men load the coffin into the back of the van and walks to the front of the vehicle. Now that he's looking closely, he sees the word Adam's Funeral Home stamped in small white print at the side of the van. Someone must have passed away recently and looking at the place, he thinks it's an old lady. Sam did says the place looks like an old lady's home and he's not contesting that opinion. The men look to be professional too, dressed in black suit and appropriately stoic. He watches as they pull away. It _is_ weird though that no one is at the entrance to see them off. Or is it just him?

Wondering if he's in the right place to begin with, he walks up to the house. Sam says he saw the number 7 on the keys which he can only assume as the room or house number. There's no one at the reception. The place seems to be eerily empty. Maybe the owners are just busy attending to the whole people-being-dead business. He's halfway debating if he should just climb up the stairs when his attention shifts to the full-length windows at the back. He peeks through the sheer white curtain.

There are houses littering the back of the place. Thinking this is the more likely choice, he opens the door at the back, following the small pathway. The only noise littering the place is the birds singing in the distance and the occasional rustle of the leaves when the wind blows. The sole of his boots makes a soft plodding sound on the muddy track. It seems like the track is fairly used with the amount of footprints on it. 

Glancing right and left, he reads the huge block number hanging beside the doors. 1, 2, 3. Nope. It has to be further. He quickens his footsteps until he sees the number 6. Slowing down, he almost comes to a complete stop. Heart beating in his throat, he crouches lower and moves closer to the bushes. He doesn't think it's smart if he goes knocking at the front door like a boy scout trying to sell cookies. The atmosphere, that a moment before was calm and almost scenic, turns scary and daunting very fast. Now every tree and bushes feel like it could hide something dangerous, sinister. Every sound and movement feel two times its size. 

Tiptoeing through the grass, grimacing every time he steps on a dry twig and hears it cracks, he approaches house number 7. Once there, he peeps inside through the opened window at the side. He sees an armchair and the quaint teacup set Sam mentioned. Feeling his throat goes dry, he licks his lips and swallows. Okay, so he's in the right place. But he doesn't see anyone. He moves slowly towards the front door, stopping when he sees that it's open. That's odd. And not at all reassuring. Skipping the steps, he approaches the entrance. He takes a deep breath, steps inside and-

Almost falls over the shoe left on the carpet there. Fuck!

Cursing at himself, he steadies his footing before moving inside. He listens hard, trying to catch any sounds from inside to indicate that there's someone there. Nothing. Feeling unnerved but unable to stop, he grits his teeth and steps into the room. Nothing. No one. This is anticlimactic. Feeling relieved though slightly disheartened, he lets go of the breath he'd been holding and looks around. The place is exactly as Sam has described. Living room plus bedroom. Armchair, check. Sunflower carpet, check. Teacup set, check. The only thing missing is Castiel. 

He frowns, walking over to the armchair when he kicks something across the floor. The loud clattering sound almost costs him a heart attack. He snaps his head down, eyes searching wildly for the source when he freezes. Lying on the floor just in front of the television is a gun. A Glock. He recognizes it because it’s the same gun Bobby used. His dad used. Police issued weapon. 

Crouching down, he picks the weapon up. Okay, something definitely went down here. His head flashes back to the image of the two men and the coffin. Oh god, please don't let that be Castiel. Please for the love of God. He turns around, ready to go charging after the van when something catches his attention. A movement. He peers out the window, the other one behind the television that looks out to the house on the opposite side. Someone is standing there. A woman. It also didn't escape his attention that the woman has long curly black hair. 

\---

"Meg," he tries again. He doesn't want to hurt her, but he also couldn't play along. "You know I can't stay, right?"

"Why not?" she drawls, trailing one finger down his chin to the top of his chest. "It's not like you have any other place to go." She circles his nipple, carefully not to touch the sensitive buds. 

"Meg," he warns. 

"You like saying my name, don't you?" Meg huffs, voice quiet and amused. His breath hitches when she flicks his nipple. "Ooh, I like that. Do that again." She flicks his nipple again and this time, he jerks backward breaking their point of contact. Meg frowns up at him, pouting. "You're no fun."

"There are people looking for me. The cops. Michael. I don't think Death wants that kind of attention on himself. You did mention he's getting paranoid in his old age. Or was that a trick as well?"

Meg's brows furrow as she contemplates what he's said. "Father is getting a little agitated. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's being back in this place. Sioux Falls isn't his favorite place to be after all. Bring back to many bad memories," she says as she palms his chest. Smiling, she lets her hands fall, playing with the hem of his t-shirt. "Don't tell Father but I like Sioux Falls." She slips her hands underneath his shirt, palming his naked skin. "Mhm, you're so warm and soft."

Heart thudding heavily in his chest, he swallows trying to calm the uprising panic he can feel in his chest. He flicks his eyes upward and tries to focus. Out of the corner of his eyes, he thought he saw a shadow by the window. He snaps his eyes towards the movement but sees nothing. He lets his gaze linger, but he doesn't see anything except the bushes outside. Maybe he'd seen a bird or a squirrel or something. Feeling slightly calmer, he focuses back on Meg, who's now sliding her hands up his bare chest, pushing his shirt up with her.

"You got arrested in Sioux Falls," he says trying to stall time. For what, he doesn't know. "I fail to see how this place holds any pleasant memories for you."

Meg stiffens. "You ask too many questions, Clarence. Maybe I'm not doing my job right," she purrs, leaning closer as she brushes her lips against his. Castiel lowers his eyes, feeling his throat pulls taut. "But I don't mind answering your questions," she whispers against his mouth. "Death used to have a daughter, do you know that? A real one," she adds, leaning back to look him in the eyes. Her eyes are half closed as she continues to palm his body, feeling the shape and curves there. 

Castiel blinks in surprise. "No. It's not in his file."

Meg smiles. "It was a long time ago. Back before he had me. Long story short. She betrayed him. Almost got him jailed. I would never do that to Father." She runs a nail over his nipple. Castiel tenses, feeling his body goes rigid. "I thought he was over her. But I guess you can never beat blood when it comes to family. I didn't know Father was looking for her, didn't know he hired a private investigator to find her. I knew I was never going to replace her, but I really thought he was happy with me."

Castiel tenses further when he feels Meg's hands at the front of his jeans. She fiddles with his belt and unbuttons the top two buttons. Castiel is barely breathing anymore when she slips her hand inside, palming his soft penis. His throat goes dry. His heart is thumping so loud he thinks his ears are about to explode. "Meg," he stutters out. 

"I mean, I was useful. I knew how to get a job done, and I can do whatever it take to do so. I'm way better than she is. When she's 15, she got busted for selling drugs. Like, come on! I was thirteen when I aced my first job!" she exclaims, taking him into her hands. 

"Meg!"

"Then, of course, Father had to find her. Mary 'Winchester'. She had to get fucking married to a cop!" Meg laughs. "A cop! Can you imagine? Having a mass murderer as a father and she took a homicide detective for a husband?"

Castiel's world screeches to a standstill. Mary Winchester. Winchester. Dean's mom name is Mary. "Mary?" he asks, voice rough and guttural. 

"Yes, Mary! Father found her. And guessed what? Instead of feeling ashamed his daughter is living the happy apple pie life- you know the white picket fence, an adorable son, a baby on the way, the whole nine yards, he was proud. _Proud!_ I don't understand the man sometimes. How can he be proud? If he's proud of what she'd become then what does that say about _me_?" Meg's eyes are brimming with tears even as she smiles wide. She goes down onto her knees. "This is what I'm good at. Getting the job done."

She takes Castiel out of his pants and strokes him. Castiel looks down at her, hands clenching into fists. No, stop. Don't, he wants to scream but keeps his mouth shut. He needs to hear what Meg has to say about Mary Winchester. 

Meg takes him into her mouth and sucks, bobbing her head. Castiel squeezes his eyes shut as he feels tears escape the corner of his eyes. His breath is coming in short, sharp breath, his chest stuttering. At one point, he can feel himself starts to respond to her ministration, his flesh hardening in Meg's mouth. He shakes his head. No. Stop. No. _Please._ But he stays quiet, biting into his lips until they bleed. 

"But apparently, this isn't something Father is proud of," Meg says when she pulls off with a pop. "Life is so unfair, isn't it? That's why I got drunk. Got wasted and punched the lights out of some poor dude who thought he's going to get lucky that night." She smiles wryly. "I can be dignified too."

She continues to stroke him, teasing precome out of the head of his penis and smearing them around. "Spent a few months in jail. All those free time got me thinking and the more I think the more bitter and resentful I become. When they let me out- well. There was only one thing I could think to do. It's not my proudest moment but, as long as Mary is alive, Father won't ever see me. So I killed her."

There a loud thud from outside, near the window. Castiel looks up. Even Meg stops her ministration to glance outside. She frowns. "Did you hear that?" She stands up, approaching the window slowly. She peers outside. Castiel is staring at her, holding his breath when another movement catches his eyes. This time, it's from the window on the other side. Someone is outside. It was fast, but he can see the figure the shape of a body flashing past. Should he warn Meg? Is this person a friend or a foe?

Before he can even think of a plan of action, he hears the front door crashes open and loud footsteps rushing in. Then, "Don't move." 

Castiel freezes. He knows this voice. He'd heard this voice in his dreams a million times. A voice he tries so hard to forget. A voice with a warm timbre tone to it, soft and youngish. The only voice that calls him _Cas._

Dean. 

But it can't be. 

He looks towards the door. It almost feels like he's moving in slow motion. He looks towards the door. It almost feels like slow motion. The upward tilt of his head, the slight turn of his neck. His eyes settle on the person standing there, legs apart, hands raised, an angry expression on his face. Castiel has never seen that look on those features before. Green eyes that once shined bright and warm are now bitter and filled with hatred. Soft bow lips that always curls up into an easy smile are now twisted into an ugly snarl. He's holding a gun. A gun that is aiming directly at Meg. 

Dean Winchester is in the room with him and by the looks of it, he's about to kill someone. 

\---

Blood roars in his ears as he glares at the brunette across the room, who's slowly putting both hands up in the air. So what? That woman killed his mom, the one incident that jumpstarted everything. The reason Sam never had a normal childhood. The reason his dad is missing. The reason he bores the scars on his back. The reasons he’s haunted by nightmares. 

At the back of his mind, he knows some of what he's accusing isn't fair. Things happened, but he can’t blame it all on that one incident. But he doesn't care anymore. It feels good to be finally able to pin his crap of a life on a face. He grips the gun tightly in his sweaty hands, steadying his grip. "Why?" he chokes out.

"Why what? Who are you?" the woman- Meg asks looking confused.

"Why did you kill her? She never did anything to you. She doesn't even want anything to do with O'Death. WHY DID YOU HAVE TO KILL HER?" he screams, stabbing the gun in her direction. He's getting too emotional he realizes when he sees his hands shake. He clenches his jaws and takes a deep breath. Keep your head, Winchester.

"Dean."

His right eye twitches at the sound of his name in the deep gravel like quality voice. He doesn't take his eyes off Meg because he's afraid to look at Castiel. Afraid that one look at those startling blue eyes and he'll be gone. He's going to shatter. He knows it. So he doesn't look. Instead, he levels his glare at Meg and in a fake-nonchalant voice, grunts out. "Hey ya, Cas. Long time."

Meg is staring at him and then at Castiel in confusion, brows furrowed. "Dean?" she repeats. "Not Dean Winchester?"

"The one and only, bitch," he growls. 

Realization dawns on her face. "Oh. I see how this puts me in a very delicate situation."

"That's an understatement," he says, mouth curling up into a nasty smile. He can physically feel the ugly twist his face is making, unable to stop it. Doesn't want to either. "She just had a baby! How could you be so cruel?" he asks, unable to stop the tears from coming. "He's fucking six months old. You left two children without a mother and a broken dad. Do you even know what you've done?" 

Meg flinches back like she's been struck. Good. Slowly, she puts her hands down and leans back against the window. She lowers her gaze to the floor. "'I'm sorry."

"Well, it's a little late for that, don't you think?"

Meg looks up, eyes fierce and glaring. "Did you think this was all a fucking game to me? Did you think I've had it easy? My entire life is a shitshow. And your mom didn't make it any easier!"

"And that justifies you killing her?!" Dean yells, anger threatening to burst out of him. He sees red, taking a step closer to the middle of the room. "Just because your life is shit doesn't give you the right to ruin others! God fucking damn you! You have no right!" 

"When I came out of jail, did you know what's the first thing I did? I went to Father and did you know what he said to me?" Meg yells, eyes wild. "'I don't need you anymore.' That hurts! After everything I did for him, after _every fucking thing_ I did, he just tossed me to the side like I meant nothing. Like garbage. Worst than something dead the cat dragged in. Do you know how it feels? And then I see him at your house, watching, smiling and I just- I can't take it! It's not fair that Mary gets to betray Father _and_ still be loved. How is that fair? It's fucking not!" Meg spits face red with fury, eyes flashing black.

"So yes, I killed her. And I was damn happy I did!"

"You son of a bitch!" Dean yells, taking the next few step closer, grabbing her by the hair and rams the muzzle in her neck, where her pulse throbs. He's breathing hard, almost blinded with the tears in his eyes. Someone is shouting his name but his blood is roaring in his ears and all he hears is Meg's words, hideous and acidic, searing bright in his brain. He jabs the gun harder into her flesh, feeling a sadistic pleasure at the grimace that crosses her feature.

"Go on, then. Do it. Kill me," she taunts, smiling like she's having the time of her life. 

"Dean, don't! You'll never forgive yourself if you do this. Dean!" 

"Do it," Meg whispers.

"No! Don't listen to her, Dean. Can't you see what this is? She's broken. Suicidal. She's trying to use you to end it all. Don't do it!"

"I still did kill your mom."

"DEAN!"

Dean stares at Meg's dark eyes. They're shining, reflecting the sun outside. She smiles, edging him on, red lips curls into the words, "Do it." Dean swallows, staring down into those dark black depth. There's something dead in those eyes. Rotting and infested. Hiding behind the mirth and amusement, the snark and smiles. His gaze wavers. He blinks, his grip on her hair loosens. 

_"Please don't kill her. Please don't be the bad guy in my dreams, Dean."_

He lets go of her hair, feeling the energy drains out of him like sand out of a punctured sandbag. He takes a step back, the hand that's been holding the gun to her jaw falls to his side. Meg's face contorts into fury as she glares at him, eyes wild and manic. "I've enough of this nonsense. You either have the guts to do it or don't. Don't fucking make empty threats, Winchester."

Dean stares at her, taking another step backward. He shakes his head. He wants to say something, some kind of explanation but no words come to mind. All he does is turns around and heads for Castiel. His heart does a funny jolt when he finally sees him. Castiel looks the same. The same blue eyes welled with tears. The same dark, messy hair, sticking up in odd places. The same 5 o'clock shadow. The chiseled jaw. The lean body. And finally, as he lets his eyes wander down, the same cock, now soft peeking out from his unbuttoned jeans, flopping down to one side. 

He cracks a smile. Castiel stares at him for a moment, face worried and concerned before cracking a smile of his own. Like the many times it did in the past, the moment his eyes meet Castiel's intense blue ones, the world falls away, and it's just them. He doesn't even register that he's walking over until he's crouching down on one knee and untying the knots binding Castiel to the chair. "We got to stop meeting like this," he says, looking down meaningfully at Castiel's lap. "Or I would think you're trying to come on to me or something," he adds playfully.

Castiel blinks before looking down and a beautiful shade of pink colors his cheeks. Dean smiles as he gently tucks him back inside his boxers and zips up his jeans. He misses this. Misses how easily Castiel get embarrassed. Misses the blush on his more often than not serious face. And his smile. The small quiet ones, like it's something secret just meant for him. Yeah, he misses that the most. 

"Hey, Cas," he says then, voice soft and gentle. 

Castiel lifts his gaze up again, eyes wide and scared for some reason before calming. "Hello, Dean," he says in that deep monotone that does funny things to Dean's stomach. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers. 

Castiel shakes his head. "Don't be."

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you."

Castiel just continues to shake his head even as the tears overflows, trickling down his cheeks. "I'm sorry for letting you go. I'm sorry for promising all those things I've said to you but never meeting any of them. I'm sorry for making you feel like you have to leave. I'm sorry, Cas. If it isn't too late, will you stay this time?"

"Dean," Castiel says, his name sounding so reverent and familiar on those chapped pink lips. 

He's looking at him so pleadingly, blue eyes open and earnest but sad at the same time that Dean doesn't know where this is going, how Castiel will react or reply and it's making him nervous, so anxious he thinks he might puke. But before he actually manages to embarrass himself, he hears movement from the side, near the entrance to the room. He turns his head towards the sound, eyes widening when he sees a man with a walking stick strolls in, looking undisturbed and indifferent. 

"Dean Winchester. Nice to finally make your acquaintance."


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realize I forgot to tuck Cas back into his pants, and it's going to be awkward as hell in this chapter so I went back and let Dean do it. Just an extra sentence. LOL. Continuity...

The room is so quiet, silent that Castiel could hear a feather fall if there's a feather in the room. Death stands at the entrance, long and elegant, both hands close primly over the skull shaped figurehead on his walking stick. There isn't any malice or hostility in his face, merely a quiet curiosity. His beady black eyes watch Dean interestedly, the bony skeletal-like structure of his face only make him seems more archaic, like a vulture. Long black hair peppered with gray is sleeked back over a high forehead, the tip just grazing the crispy white collar of his shirt. 

Thin lips curl into a smile as he spreads his arms open to both sides. "What? No hugs for your grandfather?" 

The stillness of the room is broken when Dean reaches for the gun he left on the floor and lifts it up into the air, aiming for Death. At the same moment, Death takes three long swift steps inside and with a flick of his hand, knocks the gun out of Dean's grasps with his walking stick. Before Castiel can see what's happening, Death has the blunt edge of his stick at Dean's throat, forcing him back. Dean lands on his butt in front of him, his back a long hard warm line against his leg. 

"Not very polite, I see," he comments, flicking his eyes up at Castiel. "And who's this gentleman here, Meg?"

Meg, who's been watching silently from the other side of the room, snaps her eyes up. "His name is Castiel Novak. He came with Lucifer. He was the one who stayed back to watch me."

Death nods. "Why did you bring him here?" he asks. Meg's eyes widen as she stares at her father, opening and closing her mouth but nothing comes out. Death sighs. "It's none of my business what you do outside of the house, Meg but don't bring your toys back home," he says dismissively. Castiel flicks a glance at Meg, noticing the way her expression shutters as she clams her mouth shut, lowering her gaze. 

Clenching his jaws, he growls out. "I'm not one of her 'toys' as you said. She's my friend."

Meg's head snaps up, eyes wide. He catches her eyes and gives her a small smile. She looks stunned for a while expression froze into one of quiet shock before the surprise melts away, leaving her with an open, unguarded face. The area around her eyes soften, and she smiles. Castiel never noticed it before, not up until that moment. Her smile is small and unassuming. None of the cocky smirk or sly curves to her lips. This is the first smile he sees on her face that reaches her eyes. It's like watching a dying flame comes alive. 

"I must be too old to see how tying up a friend is the socially acceptable things to do now," Death shrugs, still looking and sounding indifferent like whatever the case is, his attention is better put elsewhere. Like on Dean. "Dean Winchester. You grow up to be a fine young man. You used to be quite the little rascal."

Castiel can't see Dean's face from where he's sitting but judging by the low, angry tone of his voice he's guessing that Dean must be scowling or glaring at the man in front of them. "My grandfather is John Campbell. Not you. Scoot over, old man. You don't know me," he hurls.

"Now, let's see if that's true. You're born September 18 in Pontiac, Illinois. You moved to Sioux Falls, South Dakota when you're three years old when John received a promotion to a detective at the local PD. You live in an ordinary suburban house with yellow brick walls, garden filled with sunflowers and lavender, makeshift swings and treehouse. You're part of your school wrestling team, and you get good grades in math and science. You were a popular kid, friendly and genuine, always ready for a game of basketball or Mario Kart. Every night, before you go to sleep, Mary will tell you that angels are watching over you."

Castiel listens intently, unable not to. This is Dean's life from before. A small glimpse into his life before his mother was cruelly taken away. He stares at the top of Dean's head, the dirty blonde hair ruffled to one side and can't help but picture the little boy he once was. Carefree. Happy. Not a weight on his shoulders. 

Dean shakes his head, a small puff of air escaping his lips. "Wow, I'm touched you would know all these things about me, but come on. These are all things a stalker would know." He tries to sound tough, but Castiel hears the crack in his voice. This conversation is taking its toll on Dean. Before he's able to do anything to comfort Dean, however, he feels something pulling and tugging at one of his legs. He tries to act oblivious, staring instead at Death while Dean attempts to undo the knots around his leg binding him to the chair.

"True. I admit I was stalking your family for awhile. It's not like I could just walk up to your door and expect hugs and kisses. Mary did make it quite obvious that she didn't want to have anything to do with me."

"And she was right to stay away. You're nothing but poison."

"You're quite right on that statement. I am poison. And I am power. Mary is my daughter. You are my grandson. Unfortunately for you, I found you too late. You were already a preteen," he says like that offends him somehow. "But imagine my surprise when I saw that Mary was pregnant with her second child. Sam," he smiles looking pleased. "It was meant to be. The timing, everything. It was perfect. I couldn't ask for a better time to have found you."

"What did you do to Sam?" Dean growls. 

Castiel can see how tense Dean is, body flexing with unrestrained anger like he's ready to pounce at any minute. Something gives around his ankles. Dean's got the knot loose. Trying not to draw attention to himself, he slowly pushes at the sole of his feet. One of his legs is still tied up, and there's no way Dean could reach it without Death seeing. The heel of his foot pops out of his shoe. Using his jeans as a barrier between the rope and his leg and wishing that Meg hadn't pulled the knot too tight, he tries to slip his feet upwards while trying to force the rope down. There's a reason why Michael always uses tie-rips. Less give. 

"Meg thought I was interested in Mary, but she couldn't be more wrong," Death says turning his head to look at Meg. "It was the unborn baby I was interested in, Meg. Not Mary. You needn't have to go to the length you went to to kill her."

Meg's eyes widen in shock. "You knew?" she whispers.

"Of course, I knew. There's not much going on that escape my attention. What you didn't know was, the night you called Mary, I was in the house. See? I've been sneaking into the house for some time now. Ever since Sam was born," he explains, looking back to Dean. "I drugged Mary. She was supposed to be in bed, sleeping it off. But when Meg called, it woke her. She was very confused, disoriented. Naturally. Because of the drugs in her system, her heart rate was already alleviated and after the call, she was near hysteria. Panicked. She saw me, and somehow in her mind, she thought it was me who called. And that you, Dean was in danger."

He turns to Meg. "You thought killing Mary would take me away from the Winchester but that wasn't what happened was it? I stayed with you," he says turning back to Dean. "And I kept visiting. John thought he was going mad. He gets glimpses of me sometimes, but like Mary I had to drug him too when I was in the house. He thought he was seeing shadows."

"Why?" Dean asks, voice hoarse.

"To nurture him of course. Sam was meant for great things. Don't you see, Dean? All my life's work, all the time and painstaking experiments, it was all for Sam. He's the perfect vessel. His blood, body, and mind were open and accepting like a receptor. All I have to do was feed him."

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO SAM?" Dean yells, lurching forward. Castiel tries to grab hold of him, but he's moving too fast for him to catch onto anything. The next thing he knows, he hears the loud crack of something wooden hitting something hard and Dean is lying in a pile on his side beside him, a red lump starting to form on his head. 

"Dean!" 

"You're not a Neandertal, Dean. So don't act like one. Talk like men. I do not want to hurt you, but I see no choice here," Death speaks, looking at the lump on the floor disapprovingly. Dean grimaces in pain, blinking as he shakes his head; an ugly bruise fast coloring the skin there. Death reaches inside of his coat. Castiel's heart leaps into his throat. He stares around wildly. He need something. Anything. His eyes land on the gun a few feet away, near the window to his left. 

He glances up at Death again. Instead of a gun like he feared, he pulls out a bottle. Castiel stares at the small vial watches as the sunlight stream through the glass of- nothing. He frowns when Death crouches down and presses a hand over Dean's nose as the hand with the vial slips under his palm. Panicking, he tips his chair slightly to the side and reaches down to pull at the rope. When the rope slides off the bottom of the chair leg, he lunges towards the gun, falling flat on the floor with a thud. 

Grabbing it with both his hands, he turns onto his back and aims it straight at Death. The man looks calm as he lifts his palm away from Dean's mouth and nose, the vial safely tucked away in his coat pocket. He glances at Castiel and the gun aiming right at his head and says, "You wouldn't shoot. If you do," he stands, gesturing at Dean on the floor, "then, he will remain like this forever." Castiel glances down at Dean, who seems paralyzed, the only thing moving is his eyes. They stare around wildly before focusing in on him. 

"What did you do to Dean?" he growls then, glaring up at Death as he pushes himself up to a standing position, arm still raised in front of him. The sun glaring in from the window feels warm at the back of his neck. There's a strangled gurgle from the floor where Dean is. Castiel flicks his eyes down, and when he meets the panicked look in Dean's eyes, he knows something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

\---

Listening to O'Death describes his childhood, everything that he'd lost because of the man feels like a joke. The man thinks he knows Dean, thinks that by spying from the bushes he _knows_ him. But what he can't see or will never see is how his mother smiles at him every morning when she wakes him up with a kiss on the nose and another one on his forehead. The way she would hum and whistle when she makes breakfast. The soft glow of happiness she gets when dad enters the room; a content joy. 

O'Death would never see or begin to understand the spark of excitement every time he climbs to the treehouse dad made him when he turned six, the many adventures he'd had there. The comic books strewn all over the wooden floor, the Batman cape in the corner nor the little couch cushions mom made so that Dean could entertain his little guests when they're all holed up in the treehouse, pretending it's a fort, role-playing and discussing strategies on how to beat the bad guys. 

He would never know that the reason mom planted sunflowers in the first place was because it's Dean's favorite flower, because the big round open face reminds him of the sun, smiling brightly at them all. "Look, Mommy," he called, pointing excitedly at the sunflowers they passed at a farmer's market. "Even the flowers are smiling! I told you, you look pretty in yellow mom!" Mary just smiled at him and the next day, he saw his mom crouching in their garden, sunhat and spade in hand and asked, "What are you planting, mom?" And she said, "Sunflowers because they smile with you, and I always want my little baby to smile."

Of course, O'Death will never know that the reason he had so many friends was because his mom and dad insisted on organizing a huge birthday party the year they moved to Sioux Falls because then he has an excuse to invite his schoolmate and make new friends. The effort mom put into baking an entire bakery or dad's attempts at performing magic tricks for the bunch of hyperactive five years old spoke volumes. He made a fool out of himself. Dean laughed along with the rest when he fumbled on a card trick, and the deck of card flew out of his hand to land with a splash into the bowl of juice nearby, drenching him in sweet strawberry flavor. 

That night, tired but happy, he'd muttered thank you to his parents, and Mary had leaned down over his forehead and whispered, "Anything for my sweet little boy," and hummed 'Hey Jude' until he's almost asleep. But he will never let himself drifts off until he hears it. The quiet murmurs of words brushing the top of his head. 

_"Angels are watching over you."_

He glares at the man in front of him, the person who claims to be his grandfather and feels a strange sense of triumph. Because, even if O'Death knew all these little tidbits about him, he will never, _never_ know what they mean. The sentiment behind it, the feelings it brings. No, he may be family by blood, but he will never be family. Not like Bobby. Not like Castiel. So he curls his lips up into a sneer and spits out the words, hoping to stall enough time to free Castiel from the binds. Two vs. two seems more like a winning strategy than one vs. two. 

_"Don't let Cas die. Please don't let Cas die."_

Sam saw it happened. And he did his best to warn Dean, and he'd paid attention. But looking at the situation now, everything seems to have proceeded differently from what Sam said he saw. There was no blood on his hands. No hysteria on Dean's part. No O'Death stumbling into Meg's dead body. No epic scream fest. No grapple for the gun. No Castiel lunging at them. No shots went off. No one got shot. Castiel doesn't die.

Not if he has any say in it, anyway. Just keep his head and stall for time. At least, until he figures a way out of this mess. He feels the rope around Castiel's leg comes loose and gives himself a mental fist pump. 

"You thought killing Mary would take me away from the Winchester but that wasn't what happened was it? I stayed with you. And I kept visiting. John thought he was going mad. He gets glimpses of me sometimes, but like Mary I had to drug him too when I was in the house. He thought he was seeing shadows."

O'Death wouldn't stop spewing toxic words from his mouth. Dean's heart is pumping hot lava into his veins. He can feel his eyes burns with fury, with anger and hatred. Dad wasn't crazy. O'Death was playing mind tricks on him. All those time he would freak out, all those nights he would scream, Dean thought dad was taking the loss of mom badly. He never thought someone would go out of their way to intentionally break his dad. Tears burn in his eyes as he clenches his hands into fists. 

"Why?" he asks, unable to phantom the amount of sadism someone would have to possess to do something like this. Either that or they just can't feel. Unable to relate or understand why his actions could cause others grief. Sorrow. Heartbreak.

"To nurture him of course. Sam was meant for great things. Don't you see, Dean? All my life's work, all the time and painstaking experiments, it was all for Sam. He's the perfect vessel. His blood, body, and mind were open and accepting like a receptor. All I have to do was feed him."

Then, it hits him. O'Death has been poisoning his little brother right from the beginning. How many times did this man slip past his parent while he was sleeping right next door to feed poison to Sam? He's just a baby! His heart throbs painfully in his chest as anger surges forward. The reason Sam is seeing things, the reason O'Death is lingering in Sioux Falls. Is he back to finish the job? Did Dad taking off, putting them on the road, lived on motel to motel was what actually saved Sam? His brain spins but one question stay front and center. 

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO SAM?" he yells, lurching forward to grab hold of the man. 

All he can think about is how scared Sam looked when he told him about Ash. The fear in his eyes when he grabbed at Dean's shirt to warn him about Lucifer and the tiny whisper of his voice when he told him Castiel died. This cannot be Sam's life. He's fucking six years old. He shouldn't have death and murder playing in his head at such an age. Who knows what the hell kind of impression that will leave on a mind as young as that? Not to mention the consequences of these visions. How are they triggered? What did O'Death feed him? Are they drugs? Is Sam on drugs?

His mind feels like they're drowning and then they really did black out for a few second when his head connects with something hard. His vision comes back in stars and neon lights. He blinks, shaking his head to clear the double vision he's having. The side of his head throbs like someone is hammering his brain with a million drumsticks.

He can't see when something covers his mouth and nose. Panicking, thinking that O'Death is going to choke him, he struggles. But instead of the pressure he’s expecting, O’Death shoves something up his nostril. Taken completely by surprise, he momentarily forgets to fight back, eyes widening. Then, it’s too late. His body spasms clenches tight before he feels his energy drains. Completely. 

Falling limply to the floor he thinks, shit.

He looks around, trying to think but all he hears is his own voice screaming in his head, over and over. I can't move. I can't move. I can't fucking move! His eyes swivel around and then he catches sight of something. A red dot on the wall. Is it paint? It doesn't look like paint. In fact, it's not paint because it just _moved._ He blinks, eyes following the dot as it moves slowly to the side until they disappear. Anxious, feeling a sort of trepidation, a bad feeling, he searches the room, feeling his dread mounting until he spots it. 

The red dot is on Castiel. More specifically, the back of Castiel's head. His chest erupts into a full-blown panic. Red dot. Back of the head.

_"Dean, Cas was shot."_

_"Who shot him?"_

_"I don't know, but there was a gun in the room. You and the creepy old man was fighting for it."_

_"The gun went off? Did **I** shot Cas??"_

_"I don't know, Dean. But someone must have because then Cas's body sort of twitched and then he's falling forward. Dean, he fell right in front of me. And I saw it. There was blood. There was blood on his forehead."_

Dean tries to speak, tries to warn Castiel. _Duck, Cas, move! Move away from the window!_ He wants to say, scream but all that comes out is a strangled gurgle. And then, the unmistakable sound of a window breaking, glass splintering and smashing to the floor splits the silence of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a bit short but it won't be why you're going to kill me. Right?


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a motherload.

Castiel just has time to hear the ear-splitting crack of the glass window behind him when all a sudden something small but forceful smashes into him, causing him to fall sideways onto the wooden floor. His elbow hits the hard surface, jarring his hold on the gun. A soft grunt escapes him when all the air in his lungs are knock out of him. Something lands on his lap. Something heavy and solid. And wet. He shifts his body so that he could properly see what it is.

His heart stops, eyes wide unbelieving. He can't breathe. No. No, this can't be happening. No. He shakes his head, unable to process the scene in front of him. _NO!_

"Meg?" he utters, when he finally found his voice. If they're indeed his. It sounds wrecked like he'd gargled nails for breakfast. He reaches out for the lump of body on his lap. He can see the dark stain on his jeans, his shirt. There's a wet spot on the side of Meg's head, dark and thick, oozing slowly through dark almost black hair. He can't see her face, and when his hands touch her shoulder, he can see how much they shake, how they don't feel like his at all. 

"Meg?" he calls again, voice hoarse and broken. He sees what's in front of him; the image seared into his brain forever, but he can't make himself process it, understand what this means, what happened. Because that'll mean- no. "Meg," he says her name again, hoping this time maybe she'll lift her head and smiles, throwing out one of her many sarcastic one-liners. But she doesn't. She just lay there, motionless. In a stern voice, he calls again. "Meg!"

Nothing. 

He still can't breathe. Slowly, he pushes at her shoulder, turning her around so that she's lying on her back in his lap. What he sees effectively cut off all oxygen to his head. He stares at Meg's face blearily, tears clouding his vision. There a constant pressure behind his eyes, forceful and not going away. His face feels warm, stuck and he still can't breathe. Meg's eyes are open, and she's looking at him, dark eyes watery. Tears slip past her eyelids. Her mouth moves slowly, slack like she wants to say something.

Despite the blood pooling steadily at his side, drenching him with the thick smell of copper, he moves her up, settling her between his legs as he wraps his arms around her small body. Her head lolls listlessly against his chest as she tries to stare up at him. He leans his head down so that the top of his head is lightly touching Meg's curly hair. He can't stop the tears from coming, the way his face twists into grief and despair. He can feel the sobs bubbling up in his chest, but he bites down on the sounds, not wanting Meg to hear them.

One side of her head is distorted like her skull had caved in or gone soft. He could see where the bullet pierced her skin on the right side of her head, just above the tail end of her eyebrow. Even as brushes his lips softly against her forehead, he can feel the sticky substance drying, thickening, clumping their hair together. Meg is making a rustling sound through her nose, blood now slowly leaking from the corner of her mouth. She blinks too bright eyes before lifting them to meet his. 

"Meg," he murmurs, voice rough. "Why?" he asks, as tears slip down his lashes to fall on Meg's skin. He tightens his grip around her waist as he rubs the side of his face against pale, clammy ones. "Why me?" 

Meg's hands found his on her stomach, and she covers them with her own. Her hands feel cold. "Why not you?" she rasps, voice thick and heavy with blood.

"You don't deserve to die because of me," he says. "You don't deserve to die at all. This is all wrong. I'm supposed to save you. Not the other way around." He shakes his head, unable to stop the tears from falling and snot to dribble down his nose to his upper lips. He digs his face into the side of Meg's head and squeezes his eyes shut. Please don't die. Not for me. Please, not for me. 

"Cla-rence," she whispers, taking a short rattling breath between the syllables. "Thank you."

"Why are you thanking me?" he asks hysterical, opening his eyes to meet Meg's dark teary ones. 

Meg just smiles at him, eyes starting to slip close. He shakes his head, doesn't want to accept that this is happening. That Meg is going to die because of him. No. "No, no, no. Meg! Stay with me. Don't go," he weeps. "Please don't go." He doesn't even recognizes the sounds coming out of his throat anymore, the words breaking and the low gravel reaching a frantic unconsolable level. He hugs Meg tight to his body, clinging to her like if he never let go, she can't possibly leave.

"I love you, Clarence."

He squeezes his eyes shut, nose in Meg's hair and he doesn't want to say it. Doesn't want to say it because it sounds too much like a goodbye. He can't breathe. He sucks in air, but they don't fill his lungs. It's like he's a black hole and nothing is coming through. He bites the inside of his cheeks, sobbing shaking his head in denial until he stops. Something broke inside of him. A sort of resignation. A sort of hopelessness. 

Castiel opens his eyes and tilts his head down so that he is looking Meg in the face, their hair brushing. She's breathing through her mouth, eyes half closed, but when she notices him staring, she lifts them, tired eyes meeting sad blue ones. "You're loved, Meg. I cared about you then, I still cared about you now. You don't have to feel alone anymore. I'm here. And I love you," he says as he kisses her forehead then her nose and slowly he closes his lips over Meg's soft ones. 

When he lifts his head, Meg is smiling at him, the ones he used to see on her face. The small smirk that curls one corner of her lips. But instead of the flat sparkle in her eyes, he sees genuine affection there. A small twinkle. Her mouth moves as if forming a word and Castiel leans closer, placing his ear right in front of her lips. "Best kiss of my life," she whispers and then, "Go get your boy."

Castiel lifts his head, eyes searching hers openly as she flicks her eyes upwards, towards where Dean is. It's then that he realizes the room is smokey, foggy and he can barely see past the small space in front of himself. As he watches, he white smoke starts to blanket Meg's body, white tendrils of smoke curls itself around their body, covering them with smog. Tear gas he thinks. His eyes start to sting, tears springing from his eyes like a faucet as he's forced to squint. 

Footsteps echo outside. Boots on forest paths, twigs snapping and leaves crunching. He clutches Meg tightly in his hands as he spins his head around, frantically trying to get a glimpse of what's happening or where Dean is. The smoke is too thick, and his eyes must be swollen shut by now. He still can't breathe, wheezing as he tries to suck in the tainted air. His eyes hurt, and his head is spinning. His stomach lurches. Symptoms of tear gas: severe eye, respiratory, and skin irritation, pain, vomiting, and even blindness.

Panicked, he crouches low still holding onto Meg. She doesn't seem to be moving anymore, lying limp in his lap. He pulls her close, wrapping his arms around her as he waits. Waits for the world to stop spinning. Waits for help to arrive. Waits for his chest to stop hurting. Waits for the reason why. 

\---

Dean watches stupefied as Meg launches herself at Castiel, pushing him to the side. His eyes widen when he see the tiny jerk of her head to the side and how she falls to the floor, on top of Castiel. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion; time has slowed down. He can see the tiny droplet of blood in the air flying across the room to land on the sunflower mat. The soft thud of two bodies on the wooden floor. And then the deep guttural cry when Castiel realized what had happened.

And all Dean can do is lie there like a stupid moron, useless and of no help at all as he watches Castiel's face split into one of abject grief and disbelief. The way he clings to Meg's body, pulling her up against his chest, the way the tears spills from those brilliant blue eyes, the blood staining a large part of his shirt. 

The sun shines in from the window just sideways to them, casting a long stream of light into the room, dust mite floating around without a care in the world. In its shadow, they look small, huddling together in the corner as Castiel tries to squeezes further in on himself like he’s trying to merge their two bodies into one. Tries to blend into the background. 

Dean's mind blanked. They were screaming at him just a second ago, aerial wires intersecting, each wanting their voice to be heard and suddenly, it's just blank. Quiet. Empty. 

He stares at the two figures across the floor, and all he can think is- _oh._

And then it's a buzzing stillness. White noise as he stares at them. One part of his brain is calling out to him softly, pointing out how the pieces of the puzzle fall together. You didn't kill Meg. You didn't kill her. So she's alive to save Castiel. Castiel, who's supposed to be dead because someone, not him or O'Death shot him. They shot him. But he's not dead. Because Meg saved him. And now Meg is dying. He thinks he's supposed to feel something at that. A eureka moment or at least some form of relief that Castiel is alive. 

But what actually happens is shock, confusion then hurt, followed by a painful realization. 

Castiel's shoulder shakes as he leans down, pressing his forehead against Meg's. The small trail of kisses he leaves down her face. And the kiss. His heart aches as he watches Castiel presses a long, gentle kiss on Meg's lips, tears trickling down his cheeks. _Oh._

Something clatters to the floor beside his head. He can't move his neck to see what it is even if he wants to but a moment later, thick white smokes fill his vision. He doesn't know where O'Death is, unable to move a muscle when he feels himself being turned onto his back and something is shoved down his throat. His eyes stings and waters but he can still recognize the hazy shape of the tall silhouette in front of him. O'Death. And then he's gone.

Dean lays on his back, trying hard to breathe, gasping for air as his vision gets tinier and tinier until he can't see even see the wooden beams overhead anymore. Then, he hears a loud bang like someone is kicking the door down or something and loud footsteps clamber into the small house, the hard sole of their boots making a loud stomping sound against the wooden floor. Everything spins. It's like the ground is shaking, reverberating. Maybe they're having an earthquake, or whoever's storming inside are the size of a buffalo, trampling over everything, knocking over furniture and destroying the place.

Dean doesn't know anymore. And he's too tired to care. Even though all he's able to see for the past few minutes is pitch black, it still feels like he slips into something darker when he finally loses his subconscious. Down down the rabbit hole. 

And then there are voices again, muffled and distorted in the distance. Someone is speaking. Are they speaking to him? Can't they see he's not in the mood to talk? Better yet, can't even respond? An unconscious person lying here, hello? But the voices doesn't disappear. Instead, they become louder, clearer. He thinks he recognizes them, but he isn't sure. He thought he'd let go of awareness so why is he not peacefully knocked out? Leave him alone. He's not in the mood.

He tries to ignore the noises and go back to the dark, quiet corner of his mind where no one is there to bug him, and he can sulk in peace. Oh yes, he remembers why he's feeling like crap. Remembers everything actually. And he blames his brain for it. He doesn't want to deal with the whole fuck fest that has just happened. But his brain wouldn’t listen. Words repeat over and over, loud and echoey like a very annoying commercial tune that got stuck in his head.

_"White picket fence, an adorable son, a baby on the way..."_

_"Do you know how it feels?!"_

_"I killed her!"_

_"Dean, don't! Don't do it!_

BANG!

Dean winces, the sound reaching a high-pitched note in his head. His head jerks slightly, brows furrowing. His hands clench into fists, gripping hard onto something, he doesn't know what except that he can hold onto it, twisting it in his hand. His heartbeat races and he can hear the loud beep beep beep by the side of his head. What the fuck? Stop. Somebody just stops. He doesn't want to think anymore. Can he just have some rest? Please. Just stop with the shitshow. 

Meg is dead. 

She's dead trying to save Castiel. And for the love of god, Dean doesn't know how to feel about it. He wants to hate her for what she'd done. In fact, he was so close to killing her himself. So why does he care that she's dead now? He should be happy. Rejoice that someone as cold and heartless as Meg is dead. But she wasn't so cold and heartless now, was she? She jumped in front of an oncoming bullet for someone else. She took the bullet. She died trying to save someone. 

And that someone was Castiel.

And his heart is hurting, and he's in conflict and he really really needs the noises to go away before he flips the fuck out. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up! SHUT UP!

He opens his eyes, blinking back tears. He's expecting a bright light to assault his vision, but all he sees is a room, a dimmed room. And there are two people standing by his bedside. He blinks, swallowing roughly as he tries to steady his breathing. He recognizes the setting. Sterile white room. White sheets. Curtain around his bed. The beep beep beep at his side. He's been in a similar setting before except that time he wasn't the one lying in bed. He was the one standing by the bedside. 

Exactly where the two persons are, staring down at him with a concerned expression on their faces. He's in a hospital. When and how he'd gotten here, he doesn't know. Feeling his breathing slowly returning to normal, he tries to push himself up, choosing to ignore his visitors at the moment for lack of something to say. His brain seems to have given up on him. He can feel the heavy stares of both eyes on him, drilling a hole into his skull.

Once he's propped up against his pillow, he lifts his eyes. "Hey, Cas. Hey, Gabe," he greets, voice rough. A sudden flash across the room startles him. He turns his head to the left, just noticing the window by his bed. Wow, this is pure déjà vu. A long jagged bolt splits the dark starless sky outside. A moment later, a loud roll of thunder booms overhead. He huffs, shaking his head, a small smile on his face. 

"What's so funny?" Gabriel asks. He sounds genuinely curious. Dean can also imagine the head tilt and small furrow between Castiel's eyes. 

Dean shrugs. "Nothing." Then, he looks up into those deep blue eyes, feeling a jolt of electricity runs up and down his spine. Castiel looks the same as ever, always so intense it's like he's brimming with hidden power, vibrating with them. Maybe he's lightning and thunder, and the jolt of electricity he feels is the effect Castiel has on him from standing too close. From being in touching distance of him. Power residue. He smacks himself upside the head for even entertaining inner monologs like this. 

Castiel stares out the window before looking back at him, a knowing expression on his face when Gabriel butts in with his usual cheery in-your-face self. "Deano, finally! You're awake. You scared the crap out of us," he exclaims falling into the seat beside him and props his feet up on the bed. Dean gives his shoes a disgusted look and shoves his legs away. Gabriel lets out an indignant squawk when he almost loses his balance.

"Respect for the patient please," Dean reprimands, glaring at Gabriel, who's now narrowing his eyes at him. 

"I thought you would be more grateful considering we saved you from O'Death."

"You saved us?" Dean asks, frowning. "That was you? The troops of stampede?" Then as if a lightbulb just lit up in his head, he yells furious. "You tried to shoot Cas! You shot him! What the fuck Gabriel? What the actual fuck?!"

"Whoa, Deano. Calm down," Gabriel says, eyes widening at the heart monitor beside him that's beeping loudly, hands up in front of him like he's shushing a hissing snake. "That wasn't me. Let me explain. Like I told Cassie here-"

"Castiel."

" _Cassie_ here," Gabriel continues. "We arrived at Outerdisworld Motel, but you weren't there. All we found was Cassie's phone. And there were signs of foul play. I tried calling you, but you're not answering."

"Yeah, was kinda busy getting my mind blown at the time."

"What?"

Dean shakes his head. "Nah, continue with your story."

Gabriel stares at him dubiously before continuing, "Well, we traced your phone and found where you are. And since I know how much you worried about Castiel, and the fact that you weren't where you said you will be, instead is holed up in a room in the middle of God knows where I thought it was suspicious. And I was right. The B&B was supposed to be closed because the owners' son was getting married in Florida. There wasn't supposed to be anyone there."

"We got the perimeter covered and eyes on the house. Of course, I've got the worst men who won't listen to me. Because either they weren't brief about O'Death which wouldn't be surprising considering our target was Lucifer and at no point was I even anticipating seeing motherfucking O'Death when we showed up at the B&B but still- sorry digressing. Seeing as O'Death successfully made the transaction, naturally Lucifer was nowhere to be seen- he's probably off to Timbuktu right now or very much dead, their focus switched to Castiel, someone they were very much brief about for the mission and well-" Gabriel says in one breath, throwing his hands up in a there-you-go gesture.

Dean's head struggles to keep up with Gabriel's rapid explanation. For some reason, the spinning wheel he often sees on Bobby's computer screen pops up in his head. Someone's got to teach Gabriel fucking Ward how to explain stuff without coming off sounding like a complete whacko or a bullet train. Because seriously? 

Well, at least he's speaking human, meaning a language Dean can actually understand although it's taking him an embarrassingly amount of time to process it. Once he did, however. "That justified them shooting at minors?" he exclaims, shocked. "What the hell kind of law enforcement are you? You don't just shoot kids!"

" _I know!_ He even tried to argue that Castiel was armed yadda yadda yadda. Don't think I didn't yell his ass off."

"This is fucking ridiculous!"

"Tell me about it."

"Cas, say something!"

Castiel looks at him then slowly back at Gabriel. "What do you want me to say?"

"Aren't you furious that you almost got shot? They could have killed you! They would've killed you."

"Yes. They shot Meg instead."

Dean swallows the words on the tip of his tongue. The way Castiel says it, blunt and monotone, expression blank makes his chest hurts. He's not looking at Dean anymore but somewhere at his chest. Maybe he could see how his heart is thumping, each throb more painful than the last. He still doesn't know how to feel about Meg but at the same time, he can't shake the tremor of fear, filling him with icy dread. "Is she dead?" he asks. 

Castiel shakes his head. "She's in a coma. The bullet damaged the frontal lobe of her brain, but they can't tell how much damage the injury will do to her person if it will affect her cognisant or her ability to move and speak. They can’t say for sure until she wakes up, but they're not optimistic about that happening."

"She's living on life support," Gabriel explains. "The government is covering the costs considering the circumstance of the shot. They're trying to garner favors considering O'Death is threatening to sue them."

Dean snaps his head at Gabriel, blinking stupidly as he tries to process the information. "O'Death is suing? What does that mean? Do you have him in custody?"

"Yeah. We're holding him for 72 hours."

"Holding him?"

"We don't have sufficient evidence to charge him."

"Don't have enough- what do you mean you don't have enough evidence? The man killed Ash! And he poisoned me! I can't fucking move. Check his body! I'm sure you'll find all sort of fucking poison and drugs on him. How- I can't-"

"We searched everything. The only thing he had on him was a couple of empty vials. Whatever he'd used on you is gone. There are no traces of the drugs in your system. We checked."

"The pill!" he exclaims suddenly.

"What pill?" Gabriel asks, frowning at being interrupted. 

"Before I passed out, O'Death shoved something down my throat. That must be how he got rid of the evidence!"

"Well, either way, we've got nothing on him that we can use. And the case with Ash, dead end. Nothing to even indicate he was there. The whole B&B thing is suspicious, but they're all circumstantial. The most we can charge him with is breaking and entering that's it."

"What about Cas? He wasn't there of his own free will. He was kidnapped! Can't you charge him with that? And my mom's testimony from before, can we used that against him now?"

"Cas was taken by Meg. And the only DNA we can find on him, and the ropes were hers and yours. And the thing with your mom? She's dead now, and whatever statement or testimony she gave us would not stand strong in court considering it's hearsay. Any defense attorney would crucify her statements saying it's made outside the courtroom, and therefore she was not under oath when she testified. Doesn't mean we're not going to try. We just need a judge who would trial the case and a really good prosecutor, but if we don't find anything in the next few days, we might very well have to release him."

Dean slumps back onto the pillow, flabbergasted. "How is this justice?"

"Being a man of the law sucks. It's time like this that I missed the good old days," Gabriel murmurs staring into space. 

"We have to take him down. We can't allow him to walk free."

Gabriel sits up in his chair, turning serious eyes on him. "Which is why we need Sam's help."

"Sam? No. Don't involve him with this. He doesn't know anything. He can't help."

"That's not true, Deano. And you know it."

"What the fuck do you want from him? He can't control his visions. And he doesn't even know why he has it!"

"We can get him tested! Don't you want to know what triggers the visions? There has to be something that triggered it. He can't just have developed the ability here in Lawrence just as O'Death decided to visit. No, he did something and if we can figure out what we can use-"

"No," Dean snaps, tone bearing no argument. "Sam is not a guinea pig. And I'm offended you would think that, Gabe." He stares at Gabriel, eyes saddens with disappointment. "This is not the way to go."

Gabriel stares at him for a long moment, golden eyes grim before nodding. "You're right," he sighs, rubbing his face before leaning back in the chair. "Can I at least talk to him about the vision he had with Ash?"

"Why?"

"To see if he saw anything that might help us narrow down our search. He saw what happened. He might have seen what O'Death had touched, used or throw away. Evidence that might help us put O'Death at the crime scene," Gabriel explains. "Don't worry. I'm just going to talk to him."

Dean thinks about it, chewing his lips thoughtfully. "Okay. But you can't pester him. Or force him. Or stressed him out. Promise me?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Gabriel promises, drawing a cross over his chest and sitting up straight in his chair.

"No need to be that dramatic."

"I take things very seriously," Gabriel mock whispers like he's telling a big secret, narrowing his eyes before almost falling out of his chair by the sudden flash of light across the room and the loud boom overhead seconds later. Dean laughs, soft huffs of breath punching out of him, shoulder shaking before he catches sight of blue eyes staring at him and stops, smiles still plastered on his face. There's a soft look in Castiel's eyes. They stare at each other; Dean mesmerizes by the brilliant blue before a cough sounds to his right.

"Ahem. Feeling like a third wheel here," Gabriel whistles, eyes up at the roof. 

"Gabriel," Castiel says quietly "Do you mind giving us a moment? I promise it won't take long."

Dean's heart sinks at that. What does that mean? Is Castiel saying goodbye? Somehow, he doesn't want to believe that, but the way his heart is beating tells a different story. Please, no. I'm sorry, Cas. Please don't leave. _Please._ But he doesn't say anything, just stay still and watches Gabriel watches Castiel before turning golden colored eyes at him. The look on his face is contemplating, serious. There's a worry etches in the lines near his eyes and the tightness of his mouth. 

Gabriel takes a deep breath before pushing his chair backward and standing up. "You guys take your own sweet time. You get well okay, kiddo?" he says pointing a finger gun at Dean and mimes pulling the trigger. When he turns, he pulls Castiel into a hug. Ocean blue eyes widen at the gesture before he awkwardly pats Gabriel's back. "I'll wait for you outside."

"Thank you, Gabriel," Castiel says voice open and sincere. Grateful. It feels like he's referring to something more than just the hug and his words. Gabriel gives him an affectionate slap on the side of Castiel's face, turns around and wave before disappearing through the curtain. It's silent for awhile except for the soft footsteps. Moments later, they hear the soft click of the door opening and closing. Then, it's quiet. They're alone. 

"He's not going to take you in, is he?" he asks, heart fluttering with nerve. Of course, they would still have to deal with Castiel's arrest and trial and all that bullshit. It feels like this day will never end. 

Castiel shakes his head, a small smile on his face as he stares at where Gabriel had disappeared. "I'm no longer a wanted man. I'm free," he says. 

"Come again?" Dean asks.

Castiel turns to look at him, blue eyes bright. "I'm a free man."

"What? When? _How?_ "

"I don't know. I gave myself up after we were all brought to the hospital. After they interrogated me about the incident at the B&B, I was arrested and spent 3 hours in holding before Gabriel came and said I was free to go and that there was no evidence to indicate that they were any foul play with regards to the Walker case. It was clear cut self-defense."

"But what about the video they found?"

"According to Gabriel, it had 'mysteriously' vanished from the evidence locker," Castiel says, fingers up in quotation marks and all. "He said that with a wink at the end. So I'm assuming he had something or other to do with the eradication of the evidence."

It's not that Dean's trying to question their good fortune here, but he needs to be sure. He can't take another bad surprise. "You did run away. Won't that be a problem?"

Castiel nods. "It will if Gabriel hadn't mentioned a lawyer on the drive back. About how said lawyer will warn me not to say anything incriminating about why and how I disappeared. He sort of hinted that maybe I wasn't as willing as I was. So when they interrogated me, I told them Lucifer kidnapped me," Castiel says grimacing. 

Dean can physically feel his mouth opening and closing, but he can't stop it. He knows he must look like a spluttering guppy at the moment but oh my god! "So, you're free?" Dean asks, eyes wide still unable to believe the news.

"Apparently," Castiel answers still smiling. "I'm free, Dean."

"Go, Gabriel!" Dean cheers. "I know that son of a bitch is no lawman! High five!" he calls, holding his hand up. Castiel stares at him, eyes bright before slapping their palms together. They stay like that, both with a gummy smile on their face when it starts to get awkward. Dean pulls her hand back sheepishly.

Feeling shy and flustered all of a sudden and not knowing where to look, Dean flicks his eyes all over the room before cursing at himself and glances up at Castiel. The guy is staring at him, blue eyes unblinking. It's unnerving, and Dean's heart immediately got stuck in his throat. Despite that, he keeps his gaze on him, green eyes unwavering. They stare at each other for a long moment before Castiel moves, coming closer to sit at the side of his bed, near his stomach. "Hello, Dean," he says like he had said so many times before. 

"Hey, Cas," he answers because what else can he says.

"How are you feeling?"

Dean huffs a laugh unable to stop the ironic situation they're in. Castiel frowns, tilting his head and Dean wants to grab him and kiss him stupid at the endearing look on his face. He misses Castiel so much. Everything from his dry retorts and adorable confusion like he's trying to figure out the answer to the universe instead of simple human interaction like say, what idk stands for. "What's so funny?" he asks again. "Is there something on my face? I thought I've got rid of all the blood, but maybe I missed a spot," he says as he self-consciously wipes at his forehead. 

"No, no." He shrugs again. "I don't know. Don't this just feel familiar?"

Castiel looks around before meeting his eyes again, a small smile on his face. "Yes."

"Except, this time, it's me on the bed."

"I rather it was me."

"Cas," he warns.

Castiel has the decency to look sheepish. "The last time held fond memories for me."

"Yeah. Me too."

Castiel looks up at him then, blue eyes bright. Dean almost forgets how blue they are and how piercing and all consuming they can be. Like they can see right through his shit and into his soul. He hopes they can't right now because he doesn't know how to parse through the emotional shit storm brewing inside him to say what he really means to say. He's scared. He's never been this scared since- Alastair. And not because Castiel is threatening him with bodily harm but because Castiel has the power to kill him from the inside. And he's not sure he's ready to have his heart ripped out yet.

Another lightning flash and a roll of thunder follow. The sound of rain starts to fill the room, small soft patter against the window. Dean turns to his left and watches the large glass begins to dot up with a smattering of raindrops. Watching the rain, he suddenly feels calm. At ease. Still, he doesn't dare to broach the motherload and instead chooses to say, "Jimmy huh?" He turns to face Castiel a smirk on his lips. "Short for James?"

Castiel smiles too and nods. "Yes."

"I knew that scruff was familiar."

"You didn't recognize me. Not even after the dick pic," Castiel says dryly. There's a twitch at the corner of his lips like he's trying to hold in a smile. 

"I see you've been training. Good for you. But I don't know who your teacher is because that was horrible," Dean retorts unable to stop the smile from creeping up his face. "You need the master."

"Hm. You need to keep quiet now, Dean," Castiel says in a quiet voice. It’s his commanding voice. Soft, just an exhale of breath, but everything about it screams to be obeyed. A hot flush heats his cheeks and a heatwave rolls over him, simmering at the bottom of his stomach, low in his groin. He swallows. Castiel smiles. "Good boy," he says pointedly.

And Dean snaps. "Shit, Cas," he mutters, eyes closed. "Are we doing this now?''

"I'm sorry. I'm just nervous," Castiel says, lowering his eyes.

"Me too," he admits. It feels good to hear that Castiel is nervous too. That should be good news right? That should be good news right? That he feels the same? Laden with butterflies fluttering in his stomach? And that Dean’s is not the only one? So maybe, just maybe- "Will you stay?" he blurts.

"Dean," Castiel starts, and his voice is so sad and forlorn that Dean doesn't want to hear how that sentence will end. He can't. So he interrupts. "Hey, you know where's a good place for hamburger here? The Roadhouse. I should bring you there. Once I get rid of this horrible gown. I can feel my bare ass protesting this crappy sheets-"

"Dean," Castiel says again, voice low and gravelly. Dean stops, voice stuck in his throat. _No, please. Don't. Don't go. I need you._ "You're the best thing that happened to me, Dean. You made me believed that there's hope for someone like me. You made me feel loved. And I was never happier than the time I spent with you, Dean no matter how short it was."

"But? There's a but coming right?"

"But," Castiel nods. "I don't think it's smart for us to be together."

"Why?"

"Dean, I'm not in a good place. Mentally and emotionally. I see Meg, and I see myself. We're the same, Dean. We're so desperate for love that we can be blinded as to how we get them. And I finally see what that can do to a person. Meg jumped in front of a bullet for me. She doesn't even know me. And the reason she does that was because she thinks I'm the only one who cared. The only person in her life to fucking care about her. And she feels like that's something. Like that's worth something." 

Castiel is shaking his head as tears well up in his eyes. "But just because I asked her how she feels or cared enough to take her well-being into consideration, it's nothing to sacrifice her life for. That's just common courtesy human beings should be capable of doing to each other. Meg throws her life away because I actually _talked_ to her instead treating her like a wallpaper," Castiel breathes out. He stares at Dean's chest; shoulders defeated and expression sad. "I can't live like that."

"Like what?" Dean asks when it doesn't seem like Castiel is going to continue talking.

Castiel lifts bright blue eyes, staring at him unwaveringly. "I can't be with you and not pour my everything into you, Dean. If you're trouble, I will go into the pit of hell to rescue you. If my death would spare yours, I would do so without a blink of an eye. I would stab myself a thousand time if it means it will save you the pain, Dean. I really don't mind, I really don't," he says when it looks like Dean is going to interrupt. 

"But I don't want to do that because I feel like you're the only person to care for me like I'm dependent on you. I want to know that I do that because I love you. Not some morbid form of reciprocation. And I can't tell that apart right now," Castiel says, shaking his head. "So no, I can't stay."

"But, Cas-"

"Dean, if you love me, you would let me do this."

Dean stares, dumbstruck at the firm baritone of Castiel's voice. He's staring at Dean with pleading blue eyes, the rim red with exhaustion and tiredness. His heart aches. He doesn't want Castiel to go. Not after he finally found him. He doesn't understand Castiel's reasoning, doesn't understand why that has to do with them, with him staying. Dean would do all those things for him too if asked. He wouldn't blink twice either. So no, he doesn't understand why Castiel needs to leave, but the desperate look in his face shuts Dean's mouth tight. 

His throat is dry, but he manages to croak out. "I love you, Cas."

"If you do, then show me. Let me walk away."

Tears pricks at his eyes, insistent and there. He bites the inside of his cheeks and clenches his jaws. He doesn't answer. "Please, Dean. Have I ever asked you for anything else? Please? It's taking my everything to ask this and if you don't- I'm afraid I won't be able to do it," Castiel whispers.

And Dean wants to scream, shout, yell, _Then, don't! Stay!_

But he doesn't. If this is what Castiel wants, then who is he to stop him?

"Okay," he says. He doesn't recognize his own voice anymore. It's hard and steady like the Dean that is breaking in pieces inside just gave up and asks soldier Dean to do the dirty work. "Okay," he repeats. 

Tears stream down Castiel's cheeks. "Okay," he says. 

They stare at each other for a long moment, not saying anything, just staring. "Just because you're not staying doesn't mean we can't keep in touch right?" Dean asks, trying to make light of the situation even if he feels like he's tearing at the seam. _Please say yes. Please say yes._

"Right." Castiel nods.

"We'll always have Facebook," Dean says even when he knows he won't be using it to contact Castiel. Not unless Castiel does it first. If it's space Castiel wants, and time to think, then Dean will give it to him. He hopes, though, hopes to God that Castiel will still want something, anything to do with him. 

"We'll always have Facebook," Castiel repeats, nodding his head. 

They stare at each other again, for how long Dean doesn't know but when Castiel moves to get up, he panics, his brain running into overdrive. _Stay, fucking goddamn you. Stay!_ But he doesn't say anything or move or blinks. He just watches Castiel stands awkwardly, stiffly. Then, without warning, he leans in close until they're only a breath away. Blue eyes stare down at him, silently asking and Dean nods. Because when would he not? 

Castiel presses their lips together softly. "Thank you," he whispers, lips brushing against his. 

It's the most chaste kiss he's ever had, soft and slow. There's a sense of finality in the way Castiel moves their lips together, their noses touching, breaths mingling and hair grazing each other faces. A goodbye kiss. And when Castiel breaks away and walks out the room, Dean's lips still tingling from their kiss, he can't help the sense of loss so complete and total it's like he's mourning the loss of an absent limb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't worry. Destiel isn't over.


	21. Chapter 21

The corridor outside is quiet this late at night. It's approaching midnight, and most patients are already sleeping, and the nurses on duty have lessened significantly. The only thing that can be heard are the clickity clack of the keyboard from the small reception counter nearby and the many sounds of machines humming in the background. At one point, he thinks he hears the sound of a coffee machine spurring to life, churning down on the hard ground beans. 

Castiel closes the door to the room behind it. It feels like a mistake, what he's doing but deep down he knows this is for the better. It has to be, right? He knows his feelings for Dean are real, that he loves him but how far of that love comes from their situations? They hadn't met in ideal circumstances. Dean was abused, and Castiel was lost. In their fragile mindsets, they would cling onto anything that shows them empathy or understanding. He doesn't know about Dean but he thinks in his case, it's true.

He had fallen hard and fast for Dean when at the same time he was supposed to be in love with Lucifer. That can't be normal. People don't fall so quickly. So maybe he did mistake love with something else? If he were so lucky, he would attribute the feeling to one of gratefulness but knowing himself, he thinks it's more desperation, a last-ditch attempt to feel something other than himself. No, it's better he stays away. He meant it when he said he's not in a good place. 

But he thinks he's getting there. He never thought that being with Lucifer and Michael were good for him but after three months, he's changed even if he doesn't know it yet. Maybe it's the training or the knowledge he acquired, but he's more at ease with himself than he thought he was. He was not consciously aware of the changes during the weeks and months spent in the penthouse, but he saw it when the time called for action. He never even thought too much about it at the time, but he had reacted and responded to the situation instead of letting circumstances take charge. 

And that's something old Castiel would never do. He was complacent, letting fate dealt his hand and accepted it. He just took and took until that's all he knows. Learn to recognize that this is his fate, his life. He was never a fighter, but he is now. He can feel it, the need to do something to change the course of his life. Maybe it's because Meg risked her life to save his and he doesn't want her effort to be in vain. Maybe he feels that he owes it to her. But whatever the reason is, he knows that he needs to change. 

And being with Dean, he's afraid he'll fall back into that comfortable place, let it buoy him and Dean's kindness to swaddle him. It's tempting, to just say fuck it all and go back inside and into Dean's arms and forget about everything, pretends that everything is okay. Go back to how it was before he left. Where they're both clinging on to each other like they're the only thing that mattered and forget the world. It's tempting. But it's not the right way to go. They both need space, to think, to assimilate without their past interfering. 

He clutches the outline of his phone in his jeans pocket and closes his eyes. He still has Dean's contact. They won't be lost to one another. They're just a message or a call away. He's not losing Dean forever. It's just temporary. Until they get their head in the right place and then, and then he will come back. Maybe they can start over as friends. He would like that. But not now, when everything is still raw, and he's still standing on the razor sharp line between his old self, familiar and inviting, or the person he could be. 

He thinks he would like to figure that out. 

A shuffle draws his attention from his thoughts. He looks up. Gabriel is leaning against the opposite wall, watching him, light brown eyes golden in the dimmed lighting. Taking a deep breath, he approaches the man. There are something he needs to make clear. "Thanks for waiting, Gabriel."

"No problem, kiddo. Everything good?"

Castiel nods. "Gabriel, can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Why did you do it?"

Gabriel's eyes are serious and solemn as they stare at him, mouth in a thin line. His brownish blonde hair curls around his almost triangular face, softening his sharp features, the long nose and pointed chin. It's like he's contemplating how much he should tell or what he could say. Castiel stares back at him, blue eyes unwavering. "I don't you. You don't know me. Today is the first time I've met you. You have nothing to gain from doing this. So why did you?"

"Cassie," Gabriel sighs.

"Is this about Lucifer? I've already told you. Death made the deal. He's gone. And even if he's not, I'm not going to tell on him. You can't buy me with favors."

Gabriel arches an eyebrow. "Admirable. I must say I didn't expect that coming from you considering what Lucifer did."

"It was in the past. He's been trying to make up for it ever since. And I forgave him a long time ago. Don't ask me why."

"Okay," Gabriel says, holding his hands up. "I won't ask you."

Castiel narrows his eyes. "You still haven't answered my question."

Gabriel laughs. "It's very presumptuous of you to expect me to answer your question when you wouldn't even allow me to ask."

A blush creeps up his cheeks, and he blinks, flustered. Gabriel laughs again. "Just pulling your leg, kiddo. Here's the deal. I swapped it back in Lawrence when I was handling the underage prostitution thing with Dean. No other reasons than that Walker dude is a douche. I'm not going to allow a child rapist to squander yet another life."

Castiel stares at the man shocked at the same time a growing warmth fills his chest. "But, you're-"

"A man of the law. Right. I've been on the other end of the spectrum too. And trust me, it's a gray all over."

Castiel stares at him, trying to make sense of the words he'd just said. _I've been on the other end of the spectrum too._ Does it mean what he thinks it means? But how? Before he can ask the million questions still buzzing in his head, Gabriel interrupts. "So where's your case worker? I thought he or she is supposed to set you up?"

"Yes. I met her an hour ago, and we've made a deal. My 18th birthday is on July, 10th which is three weeks from now and seeing that I have an adult who's willing to take responsibility for me until then, we don't see why we need to burden the system. I've used my one phone call earlier to call him, and he's on his way. He should be here anytime."

"That's good. You're ready for the big 18?"

Castiel nods but another big question still trouble him. "What are you going to do about Lucifer?"

Gabriel pinches the bridge of his nose, frowning hard. He looks tired. "We need to find out who set up the contract. And the person who knew is dead. And the only other person who knows is not talking. I'm basically out of ideas," Gabriel says shaking his head before lifting his eyes to meet Castiel's. There's a worried line to them, and his voice is upset when he asks, "Is he really dead?"

"I don't know," Castiel answers truthfully. The way Lucifer looks, pale and unresponsive scares him. And the fact that they put him in a coffin. A coffin is not equipped to keep a person alive in there for long without them suffocating from lack of oxygen. He's not going to lie. He's worried. Hence, the first thing he does when he's allowed his one phone call was to call Michael. The man hadn't said much over the phone, voice hard and rigid except that he'll be coming right away. 

"Damn," Gabriel curses rubbing his face with both hands. 

Loud, hurried footsteps echo down the hallway adjacent to them. Castiel turns around, relief crashing through him when he sees Michael rushing around the corner, face flushed with sweat. His pale blue eyes are overbright, and his t-shirt is drenched at the armpit. It looks as if he's still feverish. The man's eyes swivel around wildly before landing on him and then he's taking long swift strides down the short corridor.

"Michael, you're burning up. Please don't tell me you drove here," he says concerned as he flattens a palm over Michael's forehead. Sweat glistened on his skin, and they feel clammy under his hand. "Sit," he orders. Michael blinks up at him but obeys, closing his eyes as he hangs his head. His shoulders move as he takes deep breaths, hands clenching into fists before he looks up, a steely glint in his eyes. 

"Where is he?" Michael asks, voice hard.

There a loud gasp from beside Castiel, startling him from Michael's intimidating glare. He turns to his right in confusion, frowning when he sees Gabriel clasps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide in shocked. "Mikey?" the man asks, a stunned expression on his face. "Is that really you? Holy chocolate fudge cake, it _is_ you! Mikey!" he bellows throwing his hands wide and hugging a shocked and bewildered Michael. 

Castiel just stares at the two of them, unsure what's going on. "Do you two know each other?" he asks, confused.

"Know each other? We grew up together!" Gabriel exclaims, grinning so brightly that two dimples he never knew existed shows up on his cheeks, eyes almost squinty from how hard he's smiling. He lets go of Michael to take a good look at the man. "You grew up pretty," he comments, slapping the side of Michael's face lightly. 

Michael blinks before his eyes widen in recognition. "Gabriel?" 

"The one and only."

"You're dead. I saw you died."

"Details," Gabriel shrugs, taking a step back from Michael, who's glaring daggers at the man, fever induced eyes making him look more scary and demented. "Heh heh. No hard feeling?" Gabriel tries before Michael pounces on him, tackling him into the wall opposite and pinning him there. Castiel glances quickly out the corridor to see if they've attracted any unwanted attention before ducking inside and hisses. "Be quiet!"

Michael has the lapels of Gabriel's jacket in his hands, clutching them so tight that Castiel can see the wrinkles in them. "I mourned you, you bastard!"

"I know. I saw you at my funeral."

"YOU WERE AT YOUR OWN FUNERAL?" Michael growls, almost spitting in Gabriel's face. 

"It's not every day you get to attend your own funeral. And I'm touched, Mikey. You actually cried."

"You-" Michael growls tightening his grip on the jacket. Castiel is quick to intercept, grabbing his knuckles and trying to force them apart. Michael lets go with a huff, still glaring at Gabriel. "I hate you."

"You always said that but I know it's your way of saying you love me," Gabriel says, brushing his jacket down and leans back against the wall, hands crossed in front of him. He looks too casual and calm for the situation. Michael glares at him, jaw clenching and Castiel moves slightly in between them, just in case. It's quiet for a moment, the three of them standing unmoving in the small cramp corridor, tension rising until Gabriel sighs. "I'm sorry."

"You're my best friend, and you let me believe you were dead. I don't think sorry will do it."

"How's mother?"

Michael shakes his head. "She's working."

Gabriel smiles. "She's always working."

"She missed you. She doesn't say it, but you can tell."

Gabriel nods, "Did you missed me?"

"Don't ask questions you already know the answer to."

"You did, you sentimental block of brick," Gabriel teases a mischievous smile on his face. Michael throws him a dirty look. Sensing the tension between the two men evaporating, Castiel steps back. It takes a few seconds but then the two men are hugging, slapping each other backs and smiling. "How long has it been? Five years?"

"About," says Michael stepping back. "What happened? What have you been doing these past years?"

Gabriel looks around before saying in a much softer voice, "Maybe this is not a good place to talk. Why don't we go to the bar a few miles from here? They have really scrumptious burgers. Anyone hungry?"

Castiel, who for the whole duration of their whole exchange is completely lost and confused, raises his hand. He hasn't eaten since his light breakfast this morning and throughout the craziness of the day, the hunger laid dormant. Until now. "I'm starving."

"That settles it then. Let's go grab a bite and we'll talk there. What do you say?" he asks, turning to face Michael. There's a conflicted look on his face, like on the one hand he wants to go with Gabriel but on the other hand, he keeps casting glances at Castiel. Knowing what Michael is worried about, he reassures the man. "Gabriel is also looking for Lucifer. He might be able to help." 

"You know Lucifer?" Gabriel asks before slapping a hand to his forehead. "You're here for Castiel. Of course, you know Lucifer," he mumbles. Then, his eyes widen. "You're the unidentified man back in Lawrence! Ohmygod, we've got a sketch of you, but I didn't recognize it because how- and why-" He cuts himself off. "Alright, let's get out of here. I see we got plenty to talk about."

\---

The Roadhouse is a dive bar at the edge of town owned by Ellen Harvelle, a stern looking woman with a no-nonsense attitude. Castiel guesses that's part of the job description considering the patrons that frequent the place. Most of them are police officers. He wonders midly why Gabriel thought it's a good idea to bring them here when he sees it. The pretty blonde hair waitress that Gabriel is currently making googly eyes at. She's slim and petite but tall about 5'6 in a white fitting t-shirt and jeans. Silently, he thinks she's out of his league. 

Especially since she's coming over with a dry smile on her face. She has an impish look about her, young and alert. Tough. "Gabriel," she says as greeting.

"Jo! I didn't know you worked here! What a coincidence!" Gabriels exclaims, Castiel feeling a second-hand embarrassment from how badly he's acting. "Must be destiny," Gabriel winks. 

Jo rolls her eyes. "I heard you asking Bobby where you can find me 'out of office'," she says arching an eyebrow high. 

"Oops," Gabriel says blushing. "I heard this is a great place. Exquisite burgers," he recovers, staring down at the menu now, the tip of his ears reddening. Castiel can't help the small smile that curls his lips when he sees it. When he looks up at the waitress- Jo, he thinks that Gabriel might stand a chance after all because she's smirking, eyes fond on the top of his head. His heart warms at the scene in front of him, and he's about to nudge Gabriel with the tip of his shoe when Jo schools her expression again. 

"Uh huh," she says. "Are you going to order or are you just going to sit there puffing steam from your ears?" she asks wryly, brown eyes twinkling when Gabriel makes a small sound in his throat and clasps his hands over his ears. Castiel has to stop himself from laughing when the man folds in on himself and cover his face with his hands, almost as if he wants the table to swallow him. In fact, it looks like he's slipping further down his chair, about to dive under the table.

Feeling sorry for him, Castiel pipes up. "Just three plates of your chef burger and a coke for me." He turns to Michael, who put up two fingers and adds, "Two beers, please."

Jo nods, writing the order down on her notepad and casting one last smirk at the top of Gabriel's head, she saunters off, a tiny bounce in her footsteps. "Is she gone?" comes a small voice from the small pile that is Gabriel. Castiel laughs and says, "Yes. You're safe to get up now."

Gabriel peeks out through his fingers meekly, face red before straightening up and trying to pretend that nothing happened, brushing off imaginary dust from his jacket. "You're still terrible at your pickup line," Michael says, expression fond as he shakes his head. "I thought after all these years you would've improved. Apparently not."

"Shut up," Gabriel mutters. "Say the virgin." He looks up then. "You _are_ still a virgin, right?"

Michael's face turns a bright shade of red, and if he wasn't already looking feverish from the start, it's very obvious how much the question flusters him. Castiel feels his eyebrows fly up even though he keeps his mouth shut. Is that why the progress between Michael and Lucifer is so painstakingly slow? Because he's still a virgin? But then again, he was a virgin too when he met Lucifer and that hadn't been the case in the span of a day. The lightness in his heart dimmed. Maybe not everyone is a slut like him, ready to give it up at the first opportunity. Then, he chastised himself for thinking like that. 

"Why did you fake your death?" Michael asks instead, giving Gabriel a meaningful look. Noticing Castiel's confused expression, he goes on to explain. "I've known Gabriel my whole teenage life. Gabriel is Naomi's son." 

At this Castiel blinks before turning and give Gabriel an incredulous stare. "Naomi is your mother?" he asks. "The head of a hitmen organization is your mother?" he whispers. 

"Say that louder why don't you?' Gabriel mutters, looking around. "Yes, she's my mother. Bear in mind I didn't know she existed until my dad died when I was seven. At his funeral, she came up to me and in a very Darth Vader way, she identified herself as my mother. Before I know it, there I was, in Chicago coming to terms that I have a mother. It wasn't long after that I found out what she does. It's not like she's trying to keep it a secret or anything but having a cop as a father and then having a murderer as a mother, you can see how that messed my head up a little bit."

"Apparently, they met on a job and after one night of passion, she had me. Of course, father wanted custody of me and being the workaholic that she is, she never saw the problem with it." Gabriel's expression turns sad when he says this but he continues, "Anyhoe, when I was 14, mom brought a boy home. And that boy's Mikey. You should have seen him when he first arrived. He was so timid, so unlike himself now. He can't even meet my eyes. Boy, were you damaged."

Castiel frowns, staring at the man sitting opposite him and tries to imagine him as a teenager, quiet and timid like him and feel something like hope blooms in his chest. Michael flicks his gaze over at him before they go back to Gabriel, looking unimpressed. "That's not pertinent to the story."

"Of course, it was. We bonded over our damaged childhood, me not as much as Mikey there but hey, to each their own," he shrugs. "You knew all along that I was conflicted. My father taught me to be a good person, not to say what you're doing is bad _bad_ because I understand how sometimes it can be a good thing- God, mother really fucked up my head good, hasn't she?"

"She's got a good point."

"That's the problem. She sees everything so rationally. She knows what to say to get at you. For awhile there, I thought I was doing the right thing. Killing murderers, rapists, sickos. Sort of like a vigilante. At least, that's what I say to myself to rationalize it. And mother's right. The law is flawed. Bad people walk the streets, and good people suffer. And I have the power to do something about it while earning myself and her thousand and thousand of dollars."

"What changed?" Michael asks. 

"Nothing. It just suddenly dawned on me that what I was doing, the amount of right I can put in the world is microscopic compared to what I can do on a bigger scale. With Big Brother behind me, imagine what I can do. How many people I can save and how many tragedies I can help avoid."

Michael frowns and looks around before staring at Gabriel with disbelief on his face. "Don't tell me you're a cop?"

Gabriel smirks. "You underestimate me, Mikey. I'm special forces. In fact, I was Lucifer's handler."

Now two set of blue eyes widens as they stare at Gabriel. Jo chooses that moment to arrive with their beer and coke. She sets their drinks down and stares at the silent table suspiciously. "Did Gabriel says something inappropriate again?" she asks, arching an eyebrow and cocking her hips to one side. "Did he made a comment at my ass?" 

"Jo, I'm offended that you would think that!" Gabriel exclaims, placing his hands over his heart. "I would never!"

"Rufus said otherwise. A tip? Don't let my mom catch you say that," she says, nodding towards the intimidating woman at the back of the counter.

"People at the station should stop gossiping. Honestly, I never imagine those two to be such housewives," Gabriel mutters, hunching in on himself again.

"Oh, you don't know them very well then," Jo says before winking and walks off.

Gabriel stares after her, mouth open and a stunned expression on his face before they split into a wide grin that makes his eyes almost disappear. "Did you see that?" he asks pointing at Jo's back unsubtly. "She winked at me! Joanna Beth Harvelle winked at me! She wants the D," Gabriel says making an obscene movement with his hips, face scrunches up in poorly construed passion. Castiel feels embarrassed just sitting at the same table as the man. 

Apparently, Michael feels the same way because a coaster flies across the table hitting Gabriel in the face. "Stop being gross. You should show the lady some respect."

"Hey!" Gabriel pouts rubbing his nose where the coaster has nicked it. "I treat my ladies with the utmost respect. I just don't have a brain-mouth filter like you guys do so sue me."

Michael shakes his head. "You were saying?"

"I bet those perky bottoms are soft and warm like freshly baked cupcakes," Gabriel says staring at Jo's back dreamily.

"About Lucifer, you dumbass."

"Oh. Yes, I was his handler. The last case he was involved with went south before I can pull him out and I've been looking for him ever since. I thought he was dead."

"He wasn't dead. He was captured and tortured within an inch of his life. Where were you then? Did you know he suffered PTSD for months after that?" Michael asks, pain in his eyes. "You should have seen him."

Gabriel looks guilty as he stares in Michael's blazing blue eyes. Something in Castiel's heart catches. He didn't know that about Lucifer. He never talked about his past. But Castiel had wondered. Back in Lawrence, when Lucifer gets quiet, and his eyes get this faraway look to them, when he would take out his anger on him, Castiel thought he saw anguish there. Pain and anger. Now he thinks if it's from his time in captivity. Was that what Lucifer saw when he gripped him so tight he left rings of bruises on his arms and neck? 

"How did you know?" Gabriel asks.

"I'm the one who found him. He was held captive on a cargo boat in the middle of the Atlantic sea. It was pure luck I took the hit job for Abel Linchester. Or else, who knows how much longer he would have stayed in the godforsaken place. He was living in his own excrement, Gabriel. As his handler, how could you let this happen?"

"God," Gabriel curses staring at his beer. "I was always careful to ensure that I'm the only person to know the identity of our mole in the Linchester's family. I had a suspicion we have a rat. Otherwise, Lucifer would have made much quicker progress, but it had taken double the time we thought it would to get close. By that time, he was in too deep. Did he told you what happened?"

Michael shakes his head. "I didn't want to pry."

"Well, long story short. He fell in love."

Michael stiffens, expression shuttering close so fast even Gabriel notices it. "Oh, baby bro. You didn't."

"Shut up."

"I'm sorry," Gabriel says, and it almost looks like he's about to hold Michael hands when the man snaps, "Just continue with the story."

Gabriel takes in a deep breath like he trying to calm himself down before continuing. "He fell in love with Lilith, Cain's daughter. It was supposed to be a cover but a year in and he was smitten. Once I discovered for sure we had a mole on our team I tried to get him out. I told him it was too dangerous, but he said he was too close to turn his back now. Cain had started to trust him, and they were about to get married."

Michael stiffens further, expression blank. "One day I came back to find my office ransacked, and I realizes the mole had figured out who Lucifer is and by then it was too late. I arrived at the ruins of Linchester's estate. They said there was a gas leak and that there was an explosion. It made the front page news in Portugal. Millionaire and tycoon, Cain Linchester, his daughter Lilith and future son-in-law, Nick Palicki- Lucifer's alias found dead in explosion with several other employees. We got the death certificates, but when I tried to check the remains, they were already incinerated. There were nothing left."

"I don't believe Lucifer was dead, but there was nothing to follow up on. I had nothing but a whole lot of dead ends. The only thing I could do was tail Abel Linchester, but then I was ordered back to headquarter to give a full statement on what happened. It was total shitshow. A year of undercover mission wasted, blown. When news of Lucifer surfaced in Lawrence, I was the first one on the scene. But I had just missed him. People back at headquarter wants him bad, Mikey. He's the last person to come close to the Linchester, and they think he knows something, and that's why he went AWOL."

"He went AWOL because the government abandoned him."

"So what? He ended up joining mother's army?"

"Not entirely," Michael says, lowering his gaze. "He became my partner."

"Mikey, you dog!"

"What? No!" Michael says face red when he realizes what Gabriel is insinuating. "Not like that. Partner in crime partner."

"Partner in crime can be a whole lot sexy too, Mikey. I didn't know you're into that sort of things," Gabriel says, wriggling his eyebrow suggestively. 

"Gabriel," Michael warns.

"Okay, okay. Gosh, can a guy have a little fun? I haven't seen my little bro in years. Time to make up for all the lost time I haven't spent teasing you."

Michael closes his eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh. "So you two became partners. Then, what? Why did he end up in Lawrence? As a pimp no less?" Gabriel asks. 

"The hit."

"The hit?"

"Yes. The million dollar hit. That and Naomi finding out."

"Wait, mother didn't know you had a partner?" Gabriel asks shocked. Michael shakes his head. "Dude, you're so in for it. Why didn't you just tell her?"

"You know how she is about the government. She doesn't trust them. If I told her about Lucifer, she'd want him out on the street immediately. I didn't want to risk that."

"Yeah, falling in love with someone and then finding out they're a cop will do that to you," Gabriel murmurs. "So what did mother do?"

"She forced me to take the hit."

"She didn't."

"I couldn't kill Lucifer. But I had no choice. I shot him."

Castiel stares. And stares. The bullet wound on Lucifer's chest. The fury in his eyes. The affection he sees there. The conflict of emotions. It's because of Michael. He stares at the man. He'd already know long ago that they bear similar resemblance to one another. They both have thick dark hair, striking blue eyes, and the plane of their face are almost symmetrical; straight nose, deep set eyes, razor-sharp jawlines, and high cheekbones. He knew Lucifer saw Michael when he looked at him. Knew he took him as a replacement for the man.

What he didn't know was the history behind the two men. Now he understands Lucifer's temperament better. He loves Michael, and he can't hide those feeling but at the same time, Michael betrayed him. He sees it now, the burning desire in Lucifer's eyes when he looked him, but the rough and hard way he fucked into him belies the affection, turning them into something hard, angry and punishing. Castiel used to be confused by it. Now, he just feels a small pang of hurt in his chest. Whether it's for him or Lucifer, he doesn't know.

"But I didn't kill him. The reason I was in Lawrence- I was on a job. Gordon Walker was my target. It's how I met Lucifer. You know the rest."

"Huh. So the question remains. Who wanted Lucifer dead so badly?" Gabriel muses. 

Michael's face turns grim but just as he opens his mouth to speak, three plates of hamburger appear in front of them. Castiel's stomach growls. Despite the severity of the situation, hunger is a primal part of being human. And right now, he can't think further apart from the delicious looking burger in front of him. He attacks the plate with fervor, not bothering to see what mating ritual Gabriel and Jo are dancing to and moans deeply as bites into the powdery crispy bread and the tender steak inside. It's half cooked, the red meat juice squeezing out exploding on his tongue with their rich, tangy taste. And mixed with the tingling mustard and fresh lettuces, it's pure heaven.

"Ohmygod," he moans, taking another bite chewing with his mouth full. "This is so good."

"I'll tell the cook he just gave someone an orgasm," Jo says, winking at him. Castiel blushes but thanks her all the same before he attacks the fries. He pours a dollop of tomato ketchup on his plate and mayonnaise. The fries are greasy and thick, and he covers them with sauce before popping them into his mouth. He takes another big bite of his burger before stopping when the silence at the table niggles at him. He looks at his companions.

They are both looking at him with an amused expression on their faces. Michael's lips curl up in a smile. "Should I be offended that you never moan like that at any of my cookings?"

"Starved me and I'll moan at anything you make," he answers dryly, and the table explodes into bursts of laughter. Castiel breaks into a smile of his own too as they begin to dig into their burgers, nothing but the background music from the jukebox and quiet murmuring from the tables around them to accompany their comfortable silence. They focus on their food, and it isn't until Castiel scrapes his plate clean, eating even the customary lettuce on the side, that anyone speak.

"How can we find Lucifer?" Michael asks, voice soft as he puts his fork and knife down not looking up. 

"Death completed the transaction. Lucifer's now in the hand of the person who ordered the hit on him. Or at least on his way there," Castiel pauses unsure if he should add what he saw before Lucifer left. He thinks it's kinder not to because the look on Michael's face says enough. He's scared. It's in the tightness around his eyes and mouth, the way he wouldn't look up at Castiel when he speaks. "The only who know where he is or who has him is Death."

Michael nods. "Then, that's where we go to next."

Gabriel wipes his mouth with the napkin before tossing it aside. "I tried talking, asking, threatening but the man won't say a word. He just sits there and stares at you with those black holes he calls eyes and makes you feel very uncomfortable and eerie until you give up and leave the room, still feeling dirty somehow," Gabriel shivers. "O'Death freaks me out."

It's Michael turns to wipe his mouth with the napkin. He looks straight at Gabriel when he says, "You're just not speaking his language. You stop the moment you became a badge holding official of the law."

Gabriel frowns. "I don't think you'll get him to talk just because you're 'colleagues', Mikey."

Michael shakes his head. "The language of our world is green. Can you get me in the same room with Death?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's so much happening I can't really dwell on the emotions of the character. I hope this is okay. x.x  
> I feel like I'm going a bit off topic *sigh*


	22. Chapter 22

"Where's Lucifer?" Michael asks. 

Castiel and Gabriel are on the other side of the interrogation room behind the one-way mirror watching closely as Michael walks calmly to the chair opposite Death. He pulls it out before sitting in it, leaning back with an intense look on his face. His body language is nonchalant but not so that it gives out the vibe that he's being disrespectful but enough to show that they're on equal footing. No more no less. The room before them is sterile like the one he'd been questioned in; blank white walls, a metal table screwed to the floor and chairs, one on each side of the table. 

A video recorder stands at the corner of the room, but Gabriel had turned it off prior to this. The only person witnessing this impromptu session is Gabriel and him. The room they're in is dark; the only light shining in is from the adjoining room through the mirror. He can see barely see Gabriel's silhouette on the other end of the glass; the man leaning casually against the edge of the window, arms crossed in front of him and face turns to watch the scene ahead. Castiel can just make out the profile of his face, small eyes sharp and serious, lips pursed. 

A small box is attached to the wall beside Gabriel, and the only reason Castiel is able to see it is because of the red light shining on it. He's not sure what it's for, but it has probably something to do with how detective communicate with each other when one is in the room with the suspect, and the other remains here, to confirm or denounce a statement the suspect make or to provide new information. Either way, Gabriel isn't using them right now. And Michael isn't wearing any hearing aid. 

Somewhere in the room, the must be a speaker installed because he could hear Michael clearly like Castiel's in the room with them. He turns his attention back to the two men. Death, who's been sitting in his chair with his legs cross and hands on his lap primly, looks up. His expression doesn't change much. He looks bored like he can't be bothered. Though, his eyebrows lift, however fractionally, when he sees who had entered the room.

"Michael," he greets and raises his eyes to stare at the mirror. Castiel feels his throat goes dry when it looks like Death is staring him right in the eyes. He swallows nervously. The man turns his attention back to Michael. "You must have some high friends if you're here talking to me."

Michael nods but doesn't say anything else. They stare at each other for a moment; Michael accessing while Death looks on, a curious expression on his face. 

"You're not here to murder me, are you? Do I need to remind you that we're in a police station?" Death asks. His question may sound like he's worried but the tone of voice he's using is bland. He's merely stating a fact. 

Michael shakes his head. "Where is he?" Michael repeats his question.

"Who's this 'he' you're asking? You have to be more specific."

"Lucifer."

"Ah," Death acknowledges, but other than that says nothing else.

Michael frowns and leans forward. "Where is he?"

"I heard you the other three times, Michael. I may be an old man, but I'm not deaf you know."

"Is he dead?" Michael asks, his voice so quiet yet loud in the silent room. 

"No."

The stiffness in his neck and shoulder slackens. Castiel can feel himself breathes a sigh of relief and judging by the soft exhale from the other side of the room, Gabriel did too. Lucifer isn't dead. They still have time. They can still get him back. Watching Michael in the mirror, he prays. _Let them find Lucifer alive._

Michael doesn't say anything, but he does nods. The silence in the room grows. Both men are just waiting for the other to move, to act, to say something. Even through the looking glass, Castiel can feel the tension between the two men skyrockets. He thinks he could cut through the air with a knife. After about three minutes, minutes that makes Castiel feels like hours, Death sighs. "I have no gain from giving you the information you're asking. You have to work with me, Michael."

It seems like the right thing to say because then Michael is leaning back. Maybe it's not noticeable to others but living with Michael for three months, Castiel thinks he's starting to be able to read the man. Michael's body language is more fluid now, and he moves easier. The air flows again, and Castiel feels like he can breathe again. Tilting his head to one side, Michael places a hand on the edge of the table, fingers making a soft tap-tap sound. Death looks on with his beady eyes, expectant. "What's your price?" Michael finally asks. 

Death smiles. "$100,000."

Castiel stiffens and glances at Gabriel. $100,000? Did he hears that right? But Gabriel's focus is still on the other side of the room his expression hadn't even faltered like the amount doesn't even fazed him. Like he's been expecting it. And Castiel hadn't been naive enough to think that it'll be cheap. He had thought maybe $800 or $1,000 max but this? Castiel turns back to the room, still shocked and dumbfounded when he sees Michael's fingers come to a stop. 

"For that kind of money, I will need more than Lucifer's whereabouts."

"Of course. I didn't expect you to want any less."

"I want to know who has him."

"$100,000 and it's a deal."

"Deal," Michael says, and Castiel is left speechless as he watches Michael and Death lean over and shake on it. 

\---

It's dark and cold. So cold. It feels like he's drowning again, the ice water piercing his lungs and flaying his skin. His breathing is shallow, one slow inhale and exhale at a time. More like a sigh than anything else. It feels like he's sleeping but not really because he's awake now, he knows that much. His consciousness is fighting the dull edges, struggling against the heaviness, the coldness, the darkness. Everything is so murky his brain feels like they're sloshing around. 

There's no sense gravity at all. He could be standing, lying or hanging upside down for all he knows. He couldn't feel his body for the most part. Again, he feels cold. So cold like his internal organ has frozen up, his heart stopped pumping, and the blood in his vein has dried up. But he's not dead, is he? He can't be. Not when he's still having these thoughts. He doesn't believe in the afterlife, so yeah it'll be just his fucking luck if that's the case. Is he in hell?

He slips in and out of consciousness. It's still dark but breathing is getting harder now, the air reaching his lungs feels more empty, not full and his chest aches for more air, trying to expand but can't. He can hear the soft wheezing in his ears. It's then that he noticed the loud roaring too. He hadn't noticed it before, but it's loud. Wherever he is, he must be near some kind of heavy machinery because the boom and loud roaring are splitting his head in half. 

Darkness overshadows him again, and he falls away, breathing returning to its short soft shallowness. It's cold again. This can't be normal. It's too cold. His body is freezing, drying up. He tries to move, but he can't feel a single thing. He can't feel the fabric on his skin though he's sure he's wearing clothes, not that he could see them, but he sure damn hopes so. He can't feel the air on his skin, nor the hear the beat of his heart. He stops. 

He can't hear his beating heart. The soft thump-thump that you can feel and hear when you're lying in bed, quiet and half-asleep. But he can't feel it, nor hear it. He panics. Internally because he can't still move. At least, he doesn't think so. If he's in fact trashing but isn't able to feel that, then something is seriously wrong with him. Everything is still dark, and it almost feels like he's in a sensory deprivation chamber, something he'd been to when he'd been training in the godforsaken place he called the base. Except he still feels pain. So much pain.

It's like a thousand needles are pricking into his skin at once, and not the deep kind either. It presses in just into the top layers, the part of the skin that is the most sensitive and stays there, prickling and needling, poking and prodding at all his nerves ending. He feels like he's on fire. His body must be burning. Then, he realizes he can feel his body again because fuck shit, every single part of him hurts. Even places he doesn't know can hurt like his ears and his butt. It's like his body is coming alive again, flaring.

In fact, it feels like the sort of tingling you get when you fall asleep the wrong way on top of your limbs and wake up to find said limb asleep and you try to wake it up but realizes that shit, no. Yeah, it's something like that. Like a sleeping limb coming back to life except it's a thousand times worse and lasts almost a hundred times longer. It feels like he'd been on the verge of splitting and exploding before the buzzing tones down. Even then, he's still tense and rigid, unable to relax a single muscle.

It feels like forever, time like sluicing by like thick honey before he registers anything else but the excruciating pain. He groans. He can groan now! Sounds are coming out of his mouth and throat. He tries to speak, but only a strangled sound, very abysmal and sad reaches his ears. He stops then, focusing more on trying to breathe now that he realizes he'd been gasping and choking his way through the pain. Gentling his breathing, he inhales through his nose and exhales. But the air is thin. And the amount of air he can get into his lungs is minimal. 

It's not enough, he realizes before panicking again and taking big gulps of air, none of which fills his lungs. Keep your head, Lucifer. Fact 1. There's not enough air. Fact 2. If you keep panting like this, the little amount of oxygen left is going to be gone sooner than he can think shit. Fact 3. He has to conserve oxygen. Fact 4. He has to fucking open his eyes and figure out where the fuck he is. Knowing that doesn't mean he can do it because even if the pain has subsided and he is starting to feel parts of his body like his fingers and toes, he still can't for the life of him move them.

He's drained. No energy except in his mind. His brain is going on overdrive but his body? Complete dead. 

Despite that, though, his consciousness keeps slipping. Maybe it's because of the lack of air, but he thinks he's falling again. Because the next thing he knows, there's a sliver of light in his vision. It's just a narrow line, almost as thin as a strand of hair but it glows, so he knows it's light. He squints against it and realizes he's squinting again. His eyes must be opened. He tries to get used to the flare and slowly his eyelids flutters, the narrow line growing wider and wider until a burst of light threatens to throw him back into darkness again. He turns his head away from it as his head sizzles with new pain, the light assaulting his newly awaken senses.

He breathes in deep and rejoices when he can feel the air fills his lungs fully. Taking big deep gulps of air, he tries opening his eyes again. This time, though, he can see further than the beam of light on his face. His surrounding is dark, not as dark as the blackness he'd just awoken from but shadowed. He squints again and tries to focus his attention on the shadows. He's in a large room he thinks; a bedroom. He can see an armchair on one side, a large wardrobe on the other and a bed right in front. The light that's shining on him comes from a table lamp at the side of the bed. Someone is sitting up in said bed; a figure silhouetted in shadows. 

Sensing that he's being watched, his body automatically stiffens, and he feels something hard and ungiving pulls at his wrists. He looks down and thinks, of course. He's tied to a metal chair and not just by any ordinary rope or a tie-rip but solid metal strings. It looks like a piano or guitar strings. It's sharp, and the wire is tight around his wrists, almost cutting its circulation. The skin around it is red, inflamed. He tries to move his legs, but as he'd already suspected, his ankles are bound to. 

Oh, and for kicks, someone thinks it's also fun to undress him. Closing his eyes and taking in a calming breath, he opens them again and this time, he looks straight at the figure in front of him. He knows what happened. Death got him. He was captured. The person in front of him must be the one who ordered his hit. Guess it takes getting caught to finally see the face of the person who wanted him dead. Okay, he's so very screwed. 

Whoever it is reaches for the lamp, and a second later, the glare from the head is lowered and so is the bright beam of the light. His eyes take awhile to adjust to the sudden change of lighting, but he never takes his eyes off the man. He can see that it's a man now. Large and beefy around the shoulder. He has mane for hair, unruly and wild around his head. It's long, almost shoulder length and as if he's not already covered in hair, he also has a thick beard, long and wavy. 

In the dark light, he can't see the color of it, but he knows. Deep in the recess of his now racing heart, he knows the color are dark gray peppered with white. His pupils dilated, and he swallows, finally seeing the man for who he is. The deep hard set of lines around cold blue eyes. The sharp nose and the cruel mouth. The soft fabric of his Henley betrayed the underlying muscles beneath the material, strong shoulders, and a solid chest. His eyes trail down further expecting trim stomach and sharp hipbones when all he sees is a blanket covering what looks like oddly placed limbs. 

"See what you did to me, Nick," come the familiar voice, deep and rich. "Or should I say, Lucifer?"

\---

The place Gabriel is staying while in town is a standard business hotel room. It has a small lobby area with a polite suited up receptionist, what looks like a breakfast, lunch and dinner area on the right side of it with a banner at the front showing the types of buffet available and its prices. It has a very detached feel to it. Not cheap and dirty like the rent by the hour motel but not inviting and luxurious like the pricier hotels. Just a room to spend the night in your transit from place to place. A temporary stay.

The room is the same. A queen size bed a decent size bathroom with hot shower and complimentary shower gel and body wash in fillable tubes hanging from the in the shower stall. There are towels folded and laid symmetrically on top of pristinely made sheets and more than enough pillow for a family decorating the top of the bed. On the table in one corner are brochures of what the hotel offer; sauna, hot bath, gym and swimming pool as well as places to visit within walking distance or a 20-minute drive. 

Opposite the bed is a hanging tv and below it is a cupboard slash table and a mini-fridge beneath it. Packets of teas, creme, and sugar, stand in a tray on top next to a standard water boiler. Beside it is what looks like a luggage bag and a pile of clothes neatly stacked to one side. The air smells too clean, too crisp. Dry. The cleaner must have just been here. Castiel thinks he can still smell the leftover exhaust from the vacuum cleaner. 

All in all, it feels very impersonal and unappealing. Once again, Castiel wishes he's back at Michael's place. He misses his room, with the ample lighting and sunshine. The soft bed and woody smell. He blinks. He never thought of it as his room before always thinking that he might overstay his welcome sooner or later. So he always treated the place as something temporary. He wonders when that has changed as he turns around in a small circle surveying the room.

Michael throws down his small carry on before collapsing onto the bed. He might have hidden it well during his exchange with Death, but the man is still sick. His eyes are brimmed red, an overbright glow in them that looks surreal making it seems as if he's high on something. His pupils are dilated, and he's sweating. Not the droplet of water type of sweat but an oily sheen to his face kind of sweat. It makes his looks even more feverish. The high flush on his cheeks doesn't do him any favor either.

Gabriel takes a seat on the chair to the side, in front of the large window whose curtain is closed at the moment. He looks tired and weary as he pinches the bridge of his nose and scrunches up his eyes. Castiel glances at the timer of the alarm clock by the side of the bed. It's no wonder. It's almost three in the morning. Even he can feel the heaviness in his bones and the sluggish way he moves. Still, he thinks as he wanders to the bathroom and turns on the cold water, wetting a damp towel.

Returning to the bed, he presses the towel onto Michael's forehead. The man who had his eyes closed opens them in surprise before softening. "Thanks, Castiel."

Castiel doesn't answer but gives him a small smile before sitting on the bed next to him, watching as Michael dabs at his face with the towel before letting it stay on his forehead. Gabriel stares at him, brows furrowing. "What's wrong with him?" he asks. "Is he sick or something? I thought you look sick," he declares lifting both his eyebrows.

"Side effect from poisoning," Castiel answers.

"What?" Gabriel shoots up approaching Michael with a worried look on his face before the man waves him off.

"I'm fine. My body is just trying to recuperate," Michael says, still not opening his eyes. Gabriel falters, face still concerned as he hovers over Michael. Probably sensing Gabriel still eying him like he might die any second, he sighs before taking the now warm towel from his head and sit up. "Alright, so-"

"So," Gabriel agrees.

"Cain is alive."

"Didn't say I don't see that coming. The whole explosion thing just stinks too bad for it to be the real deal."

"How did he survive, though? Lucifer was sure he's dead. Or else, he would be one of the first people he'll hit after he recovered. He went after all the others. A sort of closure. He was prickly that I'd finished Abel off. He wanted to do that himself. I understand, considering. But Cain?" Michael says, shaking his head.

"And I didn't suspect a thing because why would he go into hiding? What would that accomplish? He lost a lot of following after the whole shebang. It wasn't good for business. Not to mentioned Abel practically took over. The Cain I know wouldn't allow such a thing to happen. He's a control freak, very hands on. If he's still alive, he would be front and center trying to reinstate dominance. I don't understand this tactic at all. Why the absence? It did more harm than good."

"Unless he was injured," Michael speaks up. "Maybe even severely injured. Did you check their autopsy report?" he asks suddenly. 

"Of course. But because of the explosion, the bodies were unidentifiable. They made sure of it. The only evidence these bodies are who they said they were are based on items found in the explosion, i.e., clumps of hair, a tooth and in Lilith's case, she was only partially burnt. She was 'supposedly' not near the blast when it occurred. She sustained head injury that looked suspiciously like a bullet wound but was written off as flying debris from the blast," Gabriel vents looking extremely frustrated. "Like I said, it can't be any stinkier."

"Something rings a bell now. When Naomi got the job- it's one of those clients want to remain anonymous type job, it came with a note emphasizing the Linchester brothers medical history. So Naomi dug. She never sent an agent on a job partially informed. Whoever left the note was right. Both brothers were born with Dextrocardia. That means, their hearts is on the right side of their chest instead of left. It's crucial information and especially so, considering the line of work we do. The info's not accessible in the public domain and it cost her quite a bit to obtain. I assume, you don't that little detail?"

By the look on Gabriel's face, no, he doesn't. "If you didn't know, Lucifer wouldn't either. That would explain why he thought Cain was dead," Michael adds.

"And now the man has him."

Michael nods grimly. "We have to go to Portugal. Find out where Cain is hiding. Find him and we find Lucifer."

Gabriel nods, giving Michael's shoulder a squeeze. "We'll find him, little bro."

"Castiel, are you coming?" Michael asks hesitantly, blue eyes not exactly pleading but asking. Castiel stares, eyes widening.

Throughout the conversation, Castiel was trying desperately to line up the timeline of the whole incident. What happened, the why and how and form a coherent storyline. And he could follow almost all of it as he realizes how much he still doesn't know about the man he thought he was in love with. Every new information, every new detail that surfaced just stamped home how little he knew of Lucifer. There's more to him than the cruel man he knew, the pimp that sold him out. There was a time when he had risked his life for this country, for their safety. When he still believed in righteousness and to know how far he'd fallen. 

A part of him aches for the man he once was, wishes he'd knew him then, but then he thinks, that man is not entirely gone. He's still there, lingering in the shadows. He's not lost. Maybe more cynical, more calculative, more cautious, but still a man who can feel regret, remorse and guilt at his mistake. A man who can still feel all those things is not beyond redemption. And he certainly doesn't deserve the fate waiting for him at the hand of this Cain person. 

Lucifer is part of his life now. So is Michael. And this, the danger and perils are all part of him now. The fact that Michael paid Death $100,000 without blinking an eye still shocks him. It dawned on him how high the stake are in this lifestyle. To give an example, that amount of money could cover his study fees for a whole year! But that's another story. He used to think about college, what he would study once high school is over but after everything, especially now, he doesn't think that's in the planning for him. Not anymore. It feels like he's giving up a huge part of himself. Like it was a dream he had but was never able to fulfill instead he got something else thrown into his lap.

Working for Naomi is wrong. Killing people is wrong, but it doesn't feel so wrong right now. Not when their purpose is to rescue a life. A friend. 

He'll think about the rest later when they get Lucifer back safely. What he wants and where he intends to go in life. He's still discovering himself. And with every decision he makes, he sees himself in a different light, a different perspective. It won't all be positive he's sure of it, but at least he'll know. He's the one making the choice. And he will live with its consequences, however bad or horrible they are. Because whatever else happens, he'll be the one who decides. No one else but him. Not anymore. 

He's taking control of his own life.

And then, maybe then he can start something with Dean. If he still wants anything to do with Castiel that is. He's not going to lie, a part of him was relieved when Dean let him walked away. Because there was still this small fear, this uncertainty that wouldn't leave his mind no matter how much he hates himself for even thinking it, that makes him doubts. He feels like a complete assbutt now for thinking even for a moment that Dean only wanted him around because-

Because he's useful. Because he knew how far Castiel would go for him. Saw it with his own eyes how much he will let himself fall, be humiliated for his sake. And yes, a part of him wonders if Dean really wants him around because he loves him, or because he needs. When he hesitated back at the hospital, Castiel was afraid, so afraid that Dean will push, force him to stay because Castiel knows he will. And that small part of him that doesn't want to believe will be obliged to accept the truth.

But Dean hadn't done all those things. Instead, he let Castiel walked free. And for that, he's forever grateful. Dean loves him. And if he still feels the same way once Castiel finds himself, once he's more at peace with his person and more sure of his own feelings, then yes, maybe it could be a start of something new. Something built on love and strength rather than pain and codependence. It's with that thought in mind that he gives Michael a small smile and answers his question, eyes brimming with conviction. 

"Of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is near.


	23. Chapter 23

It's been almost two months since he saw Castiel last, that final day at the hospital. Thinking back, he still can't believe that had been their goodbye. He hasn't heard a word from Castiel since, not a peep. All he remembered was wallowing in self-pity the entire night moping about what could be and the what-ifs until Bobby and Sam visited the next day and nagged him about it. Sam was just happy that Castiel's alive and that Dean hadn't killed anyone. Bobby, on the other hand, had a lot to process, and he did it with a massive amount of grunts, curt gruffs and plenty heavy frowning.

For the most part, though, Dean can tell that Bobby believed him until the topic of Sam's apparent psychic dreams that pulled the full-stop with Bobby. He's a detective, and he worked with evidence, things he can see and prove, not mumbo jumbo and hoodoo practices. His words, not Dean's. Bobby summed it up to Sam having a nightmare which did happen more often than not after they moved in with him. Dean had his own horror stories too, waking up in bed with sweat beading his body and blood running cold.

But that didn't mean that what happened did not happen. He knows he's not crazy. He knows what Sam told him. He knows what he saw. He knows what he did. And what he did was listened to his baby brother. He hadn't killed Meg. And Castiel didn't die. If he would have shot Meg, then what Sam said would have come true. Dean was paralyzed. No one would be there to take the bullet for Castiel. That bullet would have pierced through his skull just like Sam dreamt it. So whether Sam's moment of The Shining was real or not, it did help him saved Castiel, and he's not going to question it. 

But once everything settled down and life sort of returned to normal, it's hard to wrap his head around the whole idea especially since Sam stopped having odd dream-like visions. He still has the occasional nightmare, dreaming of lurking shadows and monsters in the dark but no more killings and life-like scenes. Once, he had taken Sam aside to ask more about the vision he saw, have him explained more thoroughly how it was like and feel. Dean still gets the goosebumps after hearing Sam's side of the story.

The way he described it, it’s like watching a movie, but he's in it. Instead of being limited to what is shown on the screen, he now has full view of the whole scene like the 3D thing they do with the movies these days. Like Inside Out, he said referring to the animation Dean took him to see a few days after he got out of the hospital. Something ordinary to ease them back into normal again. Just the two of them and Biggerson's after. It had been a fun day, and Sam was smiling and laughing more than Dean had ever seen him. The thought put a smile on his face.

But yeah, the visions. It's like a 3D film and Sam could watch as the scene unfolds. He could watch the main event happening, but he could also not watch it, for instance, just look around. He could see all the minute details of the place he's in from the time on the clock or the steam rising from a hot mug. He gave the example from Ash's room. When Death started torturing Ash, Sam closed his eyes and turned his body away from the scene. But then it became too quiet. That's another thing with these visions. They had no noise. Nothing. Sam couldn't even hear his own breathing or his own cries. 

Dean guessed it's normal considering that when he dreams, it feels like he hears things. For example, when he speaks, or when people speaks to him, he hears them but not like with words or anything but in a sort of telepathic way. The sound doesn't come across but you sort of know what they mean or what they're trying to say. Maybe it's sort of like this the visions still take on a dreamlike quality to it, but without the telepathy. Either way, Sam got scared when it's dark, and he can't see anything, so he opened his eyes. And he was looking straight at the laptop. He could see the minutes ticking away on the screen and the cup of still steaming coffee at the side of the table. It was that kind of details. 

So yeah, Sam supposed he could actually walk around in the dreams if he wanted to. The only thing he couldn't control was when he would wake up. As with Ash, he didn't wake up until the man was dead even though he was screaming and panicking the entire time. But with the dream with Lucifer, he woke up minutes into the dream. And the one with Dean and Castiel, it had ended when Castiel got shot though if Sam had the choice, he would have ended it when Dean killed Meg. Sam hugged him then, making him promised never to hurt anyone. Ever. 

And he did. He doesn't think he has it in him to kill. At least, he thinks so. He hopes the day will never come where he had to test that theory. And that line of thought brought him back to Castiel. He doesn't know where he is now or what he's doing and who he's living with. He tried to ask Gabriel about it, but all the man gave him was a no comment. The guy had been hard to get a hold of recently. He stayed around after the whole thing at Cosmic B&B, still finding ways to convict O'Death but it had been a failed endeavor from the start.

O'Death knew what he was doing. He planned it from the very beginning. He walked free the day after Dean was discharged from the hospital. He actually dared to show his face before he left, saying something cryptic like, "Take care of Sam, Dean. There are great plans for the boy." Dean told him to go fuck himself to which he replied with a threat that frankly scared Dean to the bones. 

"Don't be too cocky with me, Dean Winchester. I am still your grandfather. If I wanted, I could ask for custody of Sam," he said. Dean almost punched him in the face for that, face paling and blood running cold. Before he did, however, O'Death continued. "But I won't. The boy needs his brother, and I trust you to be adequate. See that no harm come to Sam, and I will stay away from him. I trust we have a deal?" the old man asked before holding his skeleton of a hand out for Dean to shake. 

He remembered spitting the words out. "You don't have to ask me to do that. Sam is my brother. He is _my_ responsibility. And I won't let anyone harm him. Including you," he snarled. Apparently, that was the correct thing to say because O'Death smiled a creepy knowing smile and retracted his hands, turning on his too shiny black shoes and strolled away, walking stick in one hand. His heart was still beating a rapid pace in his chest, and it didn't slow until the man disappeared from sight. 

That was the last time Dean saw O'Death. If that's the last time he sees the man, it will be too soon. 

The summer past in days and weeks of wallowing. He moped around the house, thinking and rethinking what he'd done wrong. He must have done something wrong for Castiel to want to leave. He kept replaying their whole interaction, even the ones from Lawrence. He can see why Castiel thought it was necessary to stay away. Dean did use him. In fact, Dean thinks he should have left sooner. Tell him to go fuck himself the moment he opened his mouth asking Castiel to go back to the person who fucking raped him. So yes, he understands why Castiel wanted to keep his distance. 

Dean is poison.

It doesn't make accepting the fact any easier. Because damn, he still pines. They hadn’t known each other long, but he misses Castiel. He’s the only one Dean feels a connection with. A spark. A bond. 

Living life like he had, living on the road, jumping from school to school, everything seems temporary. The people come and go. And in a way, so does Castiel. He’s one of the many chapters in his life. Like all the high schools that he’d went to. He’d learned to categorize his life based on them. There’s Ohio High where he lost his virginity. There’s Berkeley’s High where he had his first joint. Springfield where he had his first fight. 

So yes, Castiel was a chapter. Lawrence High. 

His back tingles. He spent lots of time thinking about what Castiel said. _A lot._ Maybe he was right. Maybe they did meet at the wrong place. At the wrong time. But then again, Dean already nursed a crush on Castiel since way before. Way before he knew what he had to do after school. Way before he saw him naked writhing on someone else’s lap. The feeling was already there. A crush, yes but that doesn’t make it less valid.

Dean never feels this way. He’s a one night stand, hook up kind of person. He doesn’t do feelings. But with Castiel, he contracted _feelings._ And he got it bad. Maybe it’s karma after all the playing around. Maybe it’s time for him to feel what it’s like to suffer from a broken heart. 

So he moped. And replayed everything in his head. He can see where Castiel is coming from. After what they’d been through it would be stupid to say that there’s nothing there. But is what’s between them what they thought? Is it love? Or the desperation of two people who were thrown into hell and there’s no salvation to be found except in the arms of one another?

It wasn’t until Bobby found him in the basement nursing a beer at 2 o’clock in the afternoon that he finally snapped and told Dean off. He had never felt more like a kid than that evening. 

After that incident, he got slightly better. He doesn't mope as much, but he still found himself thinking of Castiel. And not in the I-miss-your-smile romantic notion kind of way either. He found himself missing the way he felt, all toned muscle and lithe body, the way his skin felt rolling and moving against him. The way they moved together, so in synced it felt like home when Castiel sinks into him. So sue him. He's a teenager with fucking raging hormones. He can't count the number of times he'd spent in the shower jerking off to thoughts of Castiel. He should be ashamed, but he can't find it in himself to care when he came with Castiel's name on his tongue.

He was tempted just to get laid to get Castiel out of his mind, but the thought of fucking strangers or let anyone other than Castiel touch him made him nauseated. For a person who was extremely sexually active before the whole thing in Lawrence, he thinks he might be a prude now. Fuck, the whole ordeal really did a bang up job with his head. He doesn't want to believe it left some serious damage to his psyche because trust him, he feels fine. He doesn't feel out of sort, afraid, scared or flinched when someone come close to him like how they do on tv. So he supposed he's not too damaged from the experience.

But the thing with his sex drive concerned him. But he chalked it up to him being more mature about this stuff. Maybe he'd outgrown one night stands and meaningless hookups. Hell, maybe he's in for the long run now, who knows? He doesn't let himself think too much about it though because self-introspection is not one of his do for fun activities. In fact, it's ranked high up in his not-touching-that-with-a-10-foot-pole list. 

But he's forced to do so when college application time came around, and Bobby kept sending him unsubtle hints about it and dropping brochures and leaflet about the various courses and universities that he would qualify with his GPA. Honestly, he'll be lying if he said he hadn't been thinking about it. When they lived on the road, going to university, getting a high education were number one priority on his to-do list. Why? Because he had seen what life could be like if he doesn't. And it's not pretty.

Dean had found himself lurking around 24 hours mini mart stealing whatever he can get his little hands on. Boxes of cereal, peanut butter. Bread. Anything that would fill their stomach after having gone through days without food. Hell, if he can find a bar that doesn't give a crap that he obviously look underage, he even tried hustling. He got beaten up once or twice for it but hell, the days he doesn't, well, they got food in their bellies for the extra four days before dad return. To be honest, the prostitution thing might even be in his future if he doesn't get his shit together. 

So yeah, he's not going to lie and say he doesn't want to go to university or college because damn everything to hell but he does. But there has to be a line. He's not going to use Bobby's money to go because higher education costs money. Lots of money. He'd spent hours upon hours scrolling through university website, financial aid everything and still, the sum raked up high. He can't afford to go. Not yet. He needs to find a job first and maybe who knows, a few years down the road and he might. 

But the funny thing about Bobby is, he's not leaving Dean with a choice. He lectured him through dinner about the whole situation. If Dean doesn't want his help fine, he can pay him back, but he's not going to let Dean waste the precious years of his life when he should be studying to work when there is a perfectly good chance for him to go to university. And Bobby doesn't have kids on his own and what the hell is he going to do with all that money anyway? He's an old man. He doesn't need much. And now that he had two boys to call his own, he's damn well going to see them through college.

And Dean had shut up, knew better than to object because the fire in Bobby's eyes said everything. What he did do was got up and pulled Bobby into a big bear hug making the man blushed and gruffed his way through it. He thanked Bobby and promised he would pay him back once he started earning, in fact, he's going to take a part time job while he's studying so that Bobby wouldn't have to take the full brunt of all the costs university is going to require. And it is _a lot._

Part of him still feels guilty for taking Bobby's money, no matter that he'll be paying it back, that he took the time to prod and search wide and deep inwards. He doesn't want Bobby's effort and money to go to waste if he ended up choosing a course he would hate and ended up having to quit it halfway or grit it out and be stuck in a job he doesn't love. It had been one of the most frustrating weeks he's had in a long time, sitting in front of the computer and scrolling through website after websites until the small fonts blurred together and had no meaning anymore. How were there so many courses to choose from? Do they need so many choices? Holy mother of God, somebody tells him what to do!

In the end, he wound up talking to Bobby about it. It took him an hour of indecisiveness before he kicked himself in the shin and approached the old man. It was the most awkward start of a conversation ever even Bobby felt stiff and uncomfortable. Maybe it's due to Dean's own nervousness- no one can be immune to that, it's enough to suffocate a room full of people. But despite the stilted start, they had a surprisingly good conversation. Bobby was understanding, listening and asking critical questions that prodded Dean to delve deeper, and it came to no one's surprise but him what he wanted to become. 

He wants to be like his dad. Saving people, hunting things. It's the family's business after all. Justice. It’s something that had been ingrained in him for years. Seeing dad, seeing Bobby, he knows it comes with baggage. The haunted look in their eyes never did go away. But he thinks what job doesn’t have a bad side? At least this one, he’ll be doing good as well. And if he can help people like Castiel, who needed help like Gabriel did, then it’s no one’s business but his. 

About dad, though, Dean doesn't think he'll see him anytime soon. The police found nothing. His trail ended in that trashed car that ran off the side of the road midway into Sioux Falls. No bodies turned up in the local or neighboring morgue. All John Does that were reported were checked and double checked. None of them were John. The police never stopped the search. How could they when John used to be one of their own? Most of these cops still at Sioux Falls PD all knew him or at least heard of him and with Bobby and Rufus on the case, no stones were left unturned. But still, no news.

Not until Dean received a postcard one day with no returning address on it. There's a handwritten note on it, though. And although it wasn't signed, Dean knew who it was. 

_Angels are watching over you. I'm sorry they were all you have. I'm sorry._

There was a sequence underneath the note, and one look at it told Dean that they were coordinates. The next day, he packed up a bag and took Sam on a road trip. Hey, it's part of life. You take a road trip after high school. Though, according to the coordinates, the place is in Nebraska. Slightly more than 5-hours drive. It might not be much, but Dean's been itching for awhile now, wanting to feel the wind against his hand as he drives down a long stretch of road in the middle of nowhere all the while blasting classic rock songs. There's a sort of freedom to it. A sort of familiarity.

He'd enough saved up from working with Ash to rent a car. And together, they went to Nebraska. The coordinates turned out to lead to a storage unit. He didn't have a key but one talk to the person in charge later, they were standing in front of it while the man opened the lock. All Dean needed to do was to show his ID. When the door swung opened, though, all words died in his throat. Sitting in the middle of the small classroom size space is the Impala. All four black shiny wheels, monstrosity of a thing just standing there. 

"Dad..." was all he could muster up before he walked towards the beauty, hands caressing the hood as he stared at the car unbelievably. When he reached the driver side door, he paused, stopping when he saw the little toy soldier Sam stuck in the ashtray and the small initials they'd carved into the Impala's door. 

**_S.W. D.W._**

"Sam!" he'd called, and the boy came running to the passenger side, throwing the door open and jumping inside. Dean laughed before entering himself. He searched the car, opened the glove compartment area, the dashboard and finally the visor. A set of keys dropped from it, along with a small journal. Dad's journal. The one he'd been writing into ever since mom died. Dean stared at it and even now he can still feel the heaviness of the book resting on his palm. He had kept it. And most nights after, he will flip through it before going back to the front cover, stroking a finger over the words that were written there. 

_'Take care of her, son. She's yours.'_

When he started up the engine and heard her purred, he can't stop the smile forming on his face. He might have stayed at Bobby for months now and had been thinking of it as home, but nothing can compare to this. This feeling. The stale and sweaty smell of the car. The worn out patch of the leathers on the seats from years of use. The rattling the vent made when he turned it up because little Dean thought it was a good idea to stuff Legos in them. He can't help the small bubble of happiness growing inside him as he drove the Impala onto the road, out of Nebraska and back home. 

All the memories, good and bad were all here, in this car and she will always be home in Dean's heart. And that's why he took her with him. He walks up to the window and peers outside. He can see the Impala parked out front, among the other beat up student cars, shiny and gleaming and smiles. They better not scratch his Baby, or there will be hell to pay he thinks before going back to unpack his luggage.

He's finally here. In university. Fucking California State University in Long Beach, California. Studying Criminal Justice. Who would have thought?

He shakes his head as he throws the sheets he'd brought with him over the bed. It's a two person room. Each side almost identical in the way there's a bed, a desk and a cupboard fitted perfectly into the small space. It's not too bad. His desk is by the window, the side pushed up against the head of his bed, and at the bottom is his dresser also pushed up tight against the wooden bed frame. It's very minimalistic but utilitarian. He likes it. And the fact that he can do whatever he wants to his own little corner makes it all the better. 

He drapes his Batman sheet over the mattress. It’s not childish. In fact, it’s all black with only the logo in the middle. He loves it. Standing up, he starts to unroll the limited posters he'd accumulated during his time with Bobby. He'd got ACDC, Metalica, and Led Zeppelin all of which he put up on the wall beside the bed. Smiling when they're all in place, he starts to arrange his belonging onto the table. There's a picture frame of Bobby, Sammy and him at his go-away barbecue. Dean was supporting a goofy grin as his hand sneaked into Sam's hair, the boy's smile faltering when he sensed the looming threat. Bobby looked grumpy as usual. He smiles, placing it at the corner of the table. 

Then, he goes about putting up the rest of his memorabilia onto the wall above the desk. Most of them are the ones he had pinned up on his wall at Bobby's, and it was bittersweet when he had to take them down. But he wants them here with him. So he dug in his heels and told himself not to be such a girl. That's Sam's job. The boy had been crying his eyes out just this morning, clinging to his shirt not wanting to let go. It's after Dean pinky promise that he'll visit that Sam allowed him to get into the car. He smiles at the memory, thinking he should call the little guy once he's done unpacking. 

"Hey, mom. How do you like my new room?" he asks, smiling at the picture of his mom and him hanging proudly on the wall before going back to the rest of the pile. A knock on the door diverts his attention, but before he can look up, Dean hears the telltale creak of the door opening.

The hinges need oil he thinks as he turns around. When he did, though, all thoughts about oil and hinges and what the fuck ever flies out of his head. He stands there, shock still. His heart starts a rapid, crazy pace, thudding loud in his ears. His throat goes dry. He blinks. Subconsciously, he can hear the thud of a luggage falling to the ground, but he pays no notice to it. Time seems to stand still. No one move. 

A ringing of a bicycle bell somewhere outside snaps Dean out of his trance. He swallows, cracking a smile as he walks the few steps to the door, holding his hand out. "Heyya, roomie. Name's Dean Winchester."

It takes a while but then a warm hand slides into his outstretched palm. "Nice to meet you, Dean. My name's Castiel Novak."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHO IS READY FOR A COLLEGE AU????!!!!  
> In the next sequel, we won't be having Lucifer's POV anymore instead we get a peek into Michael's! :)


End file.
